


Green - The Hunter and the Knight

by Niitza



Series: Volkslied Series [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Complete, Elves, F/M, Hell, Knight!Castiel, M/M, Moondoor, Orcs, Plot, Purgatory, Torture, Warriors of Yesteryear, huntsman!Dean, queen!Charlie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 77,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: <i>The Quest of the Three Bloods</i>.</p><p>COMPLETE. Fairytale AU. In which Queen Charlie sends her Head Huntsman (Dean Winchester) and the Captain of her Knights (Sir Castiel) on a Quest to save the Kingdom of Moondoor—and maybe the World, too.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>(This fic is part of a series but can be read on its own.)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From the Hairy Hills

**Author's Note:**

> 1) **This story is complete** and will be posted on Wednesdays and Saturdays towards evening (UTC) until it's all uploaded. Some chapters will have warnings for violence so please read them and proceed with caution.
> 
> 2) The geography of the Kingdom of Moondoor and most places names (including the ones eerily reminescent of other fantasy universes) are based on [the map shown on the show](http://i1140.photobucket.com/albums/n576/galwithglasses/811/SPN_0657_zps6e6d24fe.jpg), which can also help you visualize the characters' journey if needed.
> 
> 3) If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask them. I'm on tumblr at [princessniitza](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com).

Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Moondoor lived a Queen named Charlie. Ever since she'd been elected to succeed the former and not-so-regretted King Richard, she had shown herself fair and just, worthy of the trust bestowed upon her. She was, therefore, loved by her people. Numerous were the songs about her countless brave deeds, about the strength and determination she'd shown during the rough times that had followed the former king's mysterious and untimely death, about the skills and wisdom with which she'd begun to forge alliances with the Elves from the Forest of Nim Nim and with the Warriors of Yesteryear, the only ones who knew the way though the Desert—but numerous were also the songs about her doomed love for the good fairy Gilda, whose realm had rules that kept them apart and condemned them to be forever lost to each other.

These songs, of course, were not sung in court so as to not upset the Queen, who valiantly withstood her pain. She didn't let it dim her smiles or blacken her heart with bitterness, and fulfilled her duty to the best of her abilities. Luckily for her, she was supported in that task by several people who cared for her and had stood by her throughout the trials of the past years. The songs were never scant in their praises of Sam the Wise, whose knowledge reached far and wide in space and time, or of Sir Castiel, whose devotion to the crown was only matched by the cleverness of his strategies and the fierceness of his care for the people. But everyone knew that the Queen's favorite companion and confidant was her Head Huntsman, Dean Winchester, who shared her courage and goodness of heart.

They also shared an enjoyment for the hunt, for riding through the plains, hills and woods of the country. Of course, even if half of the Hunters' duty was to find and slay the monsters that dared step out of their lairs to attack helpless villagers, their activity when riding out in company of the Queen was supposed to be only for sport. Each and every time they brought back plenty of venison to attest to it—and yet most of the time it was to disguise the fact that the creature they'd faced had been far more dangerous than a boar or a bear. The Head Huntsman and the Queen exchanged conspiratorial smiles, the other Hunters remained silent, and the members of the court didn't notice a thing, or wisely pretended not to.

Such a hunt was once again the Queen's goal when she left the castle one morning, followed by Dean Winchester, Joanna Harvelle and Victor Henriksen. There had been rumors of unease, of dark shapes clouding the air and water, of people disappearing without a trace. Villagers were growing fearful of the streams that had until then insured their subsistence, for many a farm girl or stable boy had vanished while going to fetch water for the livestock or the plants, leaving nothing behind but the bucket or tub they'd been carrying - no sound, no piece of cloth, no sign of struggle. It had grown to the point where the whispers had reached the castle. Knight patrols had been sent, but hadn't found anything.

So the Queen had decided to take matters into her own hands, as she was wont to do.

She'd also done so privately—another one of her habits that tended to irritate the members of her court. Only she and the Head Huntsman knew what the real purpose of their outing was, although from the various weapons the other hunters had chosen to take with them and the disapproving curl on the lips of Dame Rachel, the knight exceptionally accompanying them for safety reasons, they all suspected that they weren't aiming for a simple, harmless deer. They all knew their Queen well, after all. But they also respected her enough not to voice their worries or try and hamper her.

They left before dawn, before the nightly patrol came back or the morning one started to get ready. The air was clear and crisp, almost biting until the first rays of the sun pierced through the trees and the bluish grey of the retiring night. By then the company had been riding for a couple of hours and had reached the Hairy Hills, an undulating landscape covered in woods and run through by numerous brooks that flew into the river further south.

To a person unfamiliar with them, the maze of slopes and streams could be dangerous, the ground suddenly disappearing from underfoot beyond a bush that had hidden a brink or an impassable twist of the water. But they weren't far from the village where Jo had grown up, a small community enjoying the protection of the trees, the freshness of the river and the trade brought by the road along which it had grown. The young huntress led them with the same sureness she'd had as a child, when she'd spent afternoons wandering through the trees in search of adventures instead of helping her mother at the inn. When she'd been little there had often been more to fear from some strangers passing through than from any beast lurking in the woods, nothing to be afraid of apart from the punishment waiting for her at home.

Now, though, she made her way through the undergrowth with wariness as well as determination. Her home village was one of those that had been most affected up until now, with already three people missing. Whatever was happening, if there was a cause for it, chances were high that it would be found nearby.

And it was, indeed, found—or rather, it found them. Jo was slowly leading her horse down a slope to rejoin a path closely following one of the brooks when it attacked. It surprised them by suddenly shooting up from the river, a black, long shape that flew at them with a shriek then disappeared again into the water in the blink of an eye, leaving the horses rearing or neighing in panic and Victor fallen to the ground, clutching at his left shoulder and cursing.

"The hell?" Dean exclaimed, bringing his mare back under control and darting his eyes over the river, trying to see where the creature might reappear. Rachel came closer to the Queen and Jo dismounted to check on Victor.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," the hunter protested as he struggled to stand back up.

"What _was_ that?" Rachel asked, hoping the hunters would have an answer. Dean had slung his bow off his back, but before he could open his mouth to say he had no idea the Queen shouted in warning. Another creature had come up—or maybe it was the same, it was moving too fast for anyone to see—and sped towards Jo and Victor, who appeared more vulnerable since they stood on the ground. In one gesture Dean slipped an arrow out of his quiver and drew his bow. He took aim but caught something else out of the corner of his eye—another one of these water serpents.

"Holy-" he let out, changing direction and unleashing the arrow towards it. The thing dived back, disappearing before Rachel or the Queen had completely drawn their swords, and the arrow planted itself into a root hanging over the water. "There are two!"

Fortunately, Jo and Victor who had successfully repelled the last assault and were now standing back to back. The dark-skinned man was clutching a short hunting sword in his right hand while the petite but no less strong blond woman held the axe that had been bound to her saddle in both of hers.

When the following attack came, they were prepared. The Queen managed to slash the creature as it hurled itself towards her, making it screech and change its course. It opened its mouth in front of Rachel, a huge hole lined with long, sharp fangs, ready to bite. Dean let go of another arrow that flew and buried itself down its throat. It wailed, a sound so shrill both Dean and Rachel flinched and almost dropped their weapons, and slithered back under water, blood trailing behind it like a cloud of black ink.

Dean, Rachel and the Queen turned as one towards the remaining hunters, only to see Jo take a hasty step back to avoid getting her leg ripped off but regaining her footing at once to strike down with her axe, neatly cutting the creature's head off. Blood, thick and black, spurted and sprayed her face and hair, making her wince with a: "Ew."

The whole company waited with bated breath for several minutes, weapons at the ready, to see if the second one would come back. After a while, as it showed no sign of doing so and the undergrowth remained quiet, Dean straightened back up and slid his arrow back into his quiver. He got off his horse and stepped up to the body as the Queen and Rachel followed his example.

"Well, that's fugly," he said with a frown as he prodded the maimed head with the tip of his boot. It was covered in dark, large scales that sharpened into short spikes near its nape and it showed no orifice—no nose, no ears, not even eyes—apart from its wide lipless mouth edged with a double row of teeth. Several feet away, the rest of the body lay, long like a serpent's but with four thin legs ending in clawed, webbed feet. Dean crouched down near the head, reaching into one of his pouches to take out a vial, and caught glimpse of a forked tongue. He grunted in disgust but leaned closer to catch the blood still sluggishly oozing from the main artery in the small glass container.

He ignored the curious looks from the others. Taking such samples was a habit he'd taken up from his little brother Sam, who had always been more interested in the plants and rare animals they could meet than in the best method to kill the creatures they were hunting, back when their father had been alive and they'd had to follow him on his endless journeys. Dean had always mocked the boy for gathering berries and mushrooms like a cook or a wild man, until the day the weirdly shaped leaves he'd picked at random had turned out to be a key ingredient in the only remedy that could heal the poisoned wound that had nearly taken their father's life.

After that Dean had shut up.

As soon as he'd gathered what he thought was a sufficient amount of blood, he stood back up and walked up to a spot where the sun pierced through the foliage, followed by the Queen. He held the vial up to the light for them to inspect its content.

"It's really black," he said as Jo joined them.

"No kidding," she retorted, squirting what she could of the thick liquid from her hair and grimacing at her hands, which were now smeared with black. She'd wiped her face with a tissue but it still looked like she'd been rolling in soot and mud.

"I've never seen anything like it," the Queen muttered, eyebrows drawn together. Behind her, Rachel was trying to get Victor to let her take a look at his shoulder. The hunter's protests were cut off by a loud rustle. They all turned and looked down in time to see the tail of the creature slide off the bank, a splash signaling it had fallen back into the stream. The head, which had been lying several feet away from the rest of the body, had disappeared too.

"But-" Jo let out after a couple seconds of stunned silence. She, Dean and the Queen exchanged a dumbfounded look. "I cut its head off," she went on. "I cut its head clean off."

"You did," the Queen faintly confirmed.

They glanced back at the stream, over which Rachel and Victor were now bent, blades drawn.

"It's gone," Victor said.

"We should head back," the knight added, turning towards the Queen. "We found what we were looking for and it'd be too dangerous to stay to fight it with such a reduced troop."

Dean nodded in agreement but looked at the Queen, waiting for her command.

"We saw it and have some of its blood," Charlie said. "It's enough for us to send out a warning that the threat is real as well as a description. We should also be able to start researching what it might be and how to fight it. Let's go back."

Both Dean and Jo bowed slightly and went to gather the horses. Soon enough, they were all back on their saddles and rode back to the castle.

 

*

 

A couple of weeks later, they weren't any closer to knowing how to deal with the problem. The population had been warned, but there wasn't much the villagers could do to protect themselves.  Who should help them with that was still in debate.

"This is a matter of security of the realm," Sir Castiel said, leaning forward and peremptorily settling the tip of his fingers on the wood of the council table. From the moment the Queen had come back from her scouting hunt and reported about what she and her hunters had found, he'd exhorted her to leave the matter in the hands of his knights and allow him to develop a battle strategy.

Dean, of course, didn't think that was the solution. "This is a matter of a bunch of monsters attacking people who can't defend themselves," he retorted.

He'd seen with his own eyes what these creatures could do when Victor had collapsed from his wound upon arriving in the castle courtyard, forehead beaded with sweat. The worst being that the hunter hadn't been lying when he'd said it was nothing but a scratch. And if a scratch from these things could lay down a grown, healthy man and leave him delirious while the healers cluelessly searched for a cure, he didn't want to know what they could do to a child. He itched to be on the road, in the villages, ready to fight and assist and be useful.

"Except these are no simple monsters, are they?" Castiel countered. "From the way they keep eluding capture they are probably far more sentient and clever than anything you usually run around after, looking for trophies. We have to deal with them in an organized manner, like we would the foes that have threatened this kingdom time and again."

"Oh, come off your high knightly horse!" Dean rolled his eyes. "This is not a war, there's no room for subtleties or strategies. They sure as hell won't be open for negotiations, or respect your stupid codes. The way I see it, the best thing to do is find them as rapidly as possible and kill them before they do any more harm."

"Oh, yes," Sir Castiel sneered, narrowing his eyes. "Because this is exactly the way you hunters work, isn't it? Shoot first and ask questions later, among others why it oh so surprisingly didn't work and we now have several dead men that could still be alive. Did you consider the fact that maybe, just maybe, it might be better to wait until we know more so that we can actually set up a plan that works?" He turned his head to address the Queen. "Your Highness-"

Dean crossed his arms with a mocking snort. _Trust the lordling to turn to the Queen as soon as he feels he can't win the argument_ , he thought. _Nobles are all the same_.

He didn't know Sir Castiel very well, since during King Richard's reign he'd mostly been away from court, serving the people as a knight-errant in the name of his faith and angel; but even though Charlie had been the one to nominate him Captain of the Knights after she'd been elected Queen, Dean wasn't about to consider him any different from the other nobles he'd had his share of over the years. In his opinion they were nothing but peacocks who looked down on commoners and hunters most of all—as if hunters did nothing beside riding out for sport and venison, as if ridding the realm of countless monsters that half of them wouldn't dare face wasn't worth a thousand times more than most of the so-called exploits minstrels twittered about during feasts and banquets.

The Queen, whose eyes had been jumping from her Head Huntsman to her First Knight with a knowing look in them, faltered under Sir Castiel's intense stare, at a loss for what to say. Fortunately she was spared having to find an answer: in that same second the doors to the council hall opened to let through Sam Winchester, castle librarian and (occasionally) mage, one of the Queen's most trusted councilors. He was carrying a large volume and was followed closely by his assistant, Kevin Tran, who trotted behind him with several other books in his arms.

"Good news," Sam exclaimed. "I think we-" He remembered himself and stopped to bow slightly, imitated by Kevin one foot behind him to his right. "Your Majesty." Then, straightening up: "I think we've found what we're dealing with."

"Please, speak," the Queen replied at once, gesturing at the space beside her. At once the nobleman occupying the seat to her left moved it to the side, leaving room for Sam to set down his book on the table.

"Okay, so since we all know that the descriptions of monsters in books are often far from being accurate, I've been going from the blood Dean sampled." Dean nodded approvingly. After all, many a broken bone or close call would've been avoided when they were younger if people had known how to properly describe a rugaru or a kitsune, that is to say went further than equating monsters with fangs, claws and hair and pointed out the _important_ details. "And I found one creature where all the writers insist that the blood _is_ black, instead of talking about blood so dark it almost looks black but is actually red. They call it the Leviathan. Here." He pointed at the middle of the page, which was, of course, written in an ancient language only he could read without help. "They describe it as a large sea monster, resembling a snake, a dragon or a crocodile."

"Croco-what?" Dean interjected.

The Queen remained on topic: "Does it say where it comes from? Or how to fight it?"

"Unfortunately not, but if I keep looking-"

"Hey, hold on for a minute," Dean protested. "First, it looks like they're only talking about one monster, and we saw at least two. Plus, they weren't what I'd call giants. How can you be so sure you're not mistaken?"

Sam pursed his lips and took a breath, probably to unravel a list of arguments, but before he could speak a clear voice rung out from the entrance of the room.

"Yet he is right. The monsters you encountered are indeed Leviathans."

Everyone looked up and over towards the door, where a group of people stood - a couple of guards, several envoys of the Queen and a troop of tall men and women clad in dark green capes. Leading them was the one who had spoken, a woman with a river of blond curls framing her face. She was young in appearance, as were all the members of her company, but everyone in the room had recognized them as Elves and knew not to be deceived by it.

She directed her wide, pale blue eyes at the Queen and added: "The ones you have fought are the spawns of a greater evil dwelling in the Black Sea of Lorloch. The heightened trade on the sea must have disturbed it from its sleep and angered it, prompting it to parasite the land and chase after anything that lives there."

"Oh, great," the Queen muttered, so low that only the ones closest to her heard. "Try to increase production and trade in your country to better provide for your people and see where it leads you."

She stood up nonetheless with a gracious smile. "I see that my messengers found you in time. As Queen of Moondoor, I, Charlie Bradbury, bid you and your company welcome."

She inclined her head as everyone else in the room rose from their seats. The Elves bowed in return.

"I am Jessica of the Moors, here on behalf of the Elves of the Forest of Nim Nim, and I thank you." Her pleasant smile disappeared to be replaced by a graver expression. "Our rivers are invaded by these pests too. I was sent here because we wish to honor our agreements by exchanging information and working together until the evil is vanquished."

"And we are grateful for that thought." The Queen turned towards the remaining messengers, who hadn't left for the elven territories but had come back all the same—unaccompanied. "What about the Warriors of Yesteryear?"

"They were impossible to find, your highness," the envoy replied with a swift bow. "They've retreated far into the desert and won't come out. Our merchants are blocked in the village of Ajo, at the edge of the sand. They can't go any further to reach the ships and the sea without them as guides."

"That might be a good thing for them," Jessica said, a slight sneer on her face revealing her despise for the men of the desert. "It is, after all, highly probable that any ship that was sailing on the waves is now nothing more than a wreck at the bottom of the sea."

Without waiting for permission she walked further into the room, followed by two of her kind that were carrying several rolls of parchment and books. Sam hastily made room for her near the Queen, bowing, tripping on the Queen's chair, stumbling into Kevin and almost tearing the page he'd been consulting while doing so. Jessica threw him an amused smile, as one is wont to do when one sees a grown, knowledgeable man so obviously flustered, while her companions carefully set down and unrolled their documents.

"Our texts mention a way to fight them," she said, turning to the Queen. "As you might have found out, simple weapons won't work. We have to forge one using several special ingredients and a spell. It is described here." She slid a parchment to the side to present it to the Queen. Sam and Kevin leaned over Charlie's seat to catch a glimpse of it. "We managed to translate the beginning. The weapon has to be inlaid with sigils made out of bone from a righteous mortal and washed in the three bloods of the fallen."

Her words were followed by silence.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Dean asked, voicing what everyone was wondering about.

Jessica glanced at him with a slightly irritated frown, but didn't offer any answer. Sam on the other hand exclaimed: "Great!" He dove towards Kevin to take a book from him, leaving the poor boy trying to prevent the rest of the pile from tumbling down.

He set the volume on the table between the Queen and his brother and started frantically leafing through it. "It connects to that other legend I read about, when I was looking for anything mentioning blood. Here: For a powerful spell in desperate times a bold heart will go look for the bloods of the Fallen. Three drops of blood from a Fallen Angel, three drops of blood from the Father of Fallen Beasts and three drops of blood from the Ruler of Fallen Humanity are the Key to unleash a prodigious magic."

Dean threw him a look, because in his opinion that didn't sound helpful.

"It's crystal clear!" Sam insisted. "Not only the fallen angel, but the two others. Obviously the father of fallen beasts would be the father of a monster species, that is to say an Alpha monster. As for the ruler of fallen humanity, it'd be the current King of Hell."

Another silence followed. Jessica and the other Elves looked slightly impressed by Sam's swift mind and deductions, the rest of the people sitting at the table mostly nonplussed. Eventually, Castiel cleared his throat.

"The question remains of how to obtain that blood. I thought Alphas were nothing but a myth."

"They aren't," Sam said at once. "According to the books, they've retired to Purgatory a long time ago - long enough for their existence to become legend."

"So in short whoever would want to forge that weapon—which seems to be the only solution to our problem—would have to go traipsing through at least Purgatory and Hell," Dean summed up. "Nice. And realistic. Since we all know the way there. Or where to find a fallen angel, come to think of it."

"The way I see it, it's child's play," another voice announced, and heads turned towards the back of the room where Gabriel, the court jester, had been sitting sideways in an armchair, savoring sweets brought in with the last shipment that had travelled through the desert before the whole mess had begun.

"How so?" the Queen asked, because in spite of his role the small man had been known to bring unexpected insight in many a situation, if in a convoluted way.

"We only need to ask the Sorceress of Mount Neumandoor. She knows _things_." He waggled his eyebrows. "Like, say, the way into _secret_ places."

The obvious insinuation made Dean wince in disgust, but Sam considered the advice. "She _is_ said to be a seer," he said.

"Except that that prophetess' existence is also nothing but a rumor," Castiel sighed, wearily rubbing at his forehead.

"It is our best lead," the Queen retorted. "And I know for a fact that many a knight has left on a quest with less information than that, even less a starting point."

This effectively shut Castiel up. Dean smirked, but it disappeared when he saw the Queen frown in indecision.

"Yet I can't go. The Queen has to stay and organize the defense of her people and territory. I have to name a champion and representative to go on this quest in my stead." She paused, looking at every person sitting around the table one after the other before she nodded to herself. "Dean Winchester," she announced.

Dean, who had been ready to volunteer, straightened up then inclined his head in obedience, silently proud and slightly preening that the Queen had chosen him. He was, however, less happy when she turned to someone else right after: "And Sir Castiel." The knight's eyebrows twitched in confusion until she went on: "You'll both go."

"Hell no," Dean protested at once while Castiel started: "Your Majesty, I don't think-"

"There is no way this is a one man quest," Charlie spoke over both of them. "Be aware that I only send you two because I realistically can't spare any more of my best men right now while trusting that you will complete your mission quickly and efficiently and bring back the three bloods we need. If it is feasible."

"Your Highness, I mean no disrespect, but I doubt your huntsman is in any way versed in the particulars of a quest and would therefore-"

"No disrespect, my ass," Dean cut in. "Who do you think you are? And who do you think _I_ am? Certainly no whiny, useless noble sitting on his ass all day polishing his jewels. I've spent more time on the road than you ever did or can imagine, and that's without mentioning all the-"

The Queen only needed pointedly clearing her throat with a severe look and quirked eyebrow for the both of them to stop and lower their eyes in deference.

"As you've just reminded us, you both have more than enough experience in traveling, searching, tracking and fighting, albeit with different methods and approaches—which, in a quest like the one I'm sending you on, will be nothing but an asset. Plus you are among my most trusted men." She paused for a second, not to see if anyone would object—no one did, as all the members of her council had been approving her choice—but to let her word settle in the minds of all. Then she raised her chin and declared: "The Queen's word is final. You'll leave tomorrow."

"Yes, your Majesty," Castiel replied. He stood up to step closer to the royal seat, then went down on one knee, his right hand pressed against his heart in a loose fist. "I pledge to fulfill the mission you've entrusted me. It'll be an honor."

"I know, Sir Castiel."

"I now request permission to leave in order to start preparing for my journey."

"And I grant you it," the Queen allowed, leaning forward to put a hand on his shoulder. She let it slide up to Castiel's cheek when he looked up at her, giving him a smile which he returned as if in spite of himself. After that he stood, bowed once more and walked out of the room, followed by his second in command, Dame Rachel, and his squire, the young Samandriel.

"I probably should do the same," Dean said once the knights had left. He stood up and bowed deeply over the hand the Queen reached out to him, not expecting him to kneel down in front of so many people. "I'll do my best, my Queen," he promised in a low voice meant for her ears only.

"I know," she repeated softly.

"No chance you'll change your mind about your choice of my companion?"

"None at all." She smirked at him when their eyes met, freeing her hand from his in order to pat him on the cheek. "I tell you: it's good to be Queen."

Dean smiled back in fond exasperation, then straightened up and went back to his rooms to pack.

 

*

 

The following morning, a whole party came out to witness the departure of Dean Winchester and Sir Castiel. There was the Queen surrounded by her nobles, her councilmen and several knights, all standing at a respectable distance on the stairs. Her face was solemn and grave, pale, for she knew she might be sending two of her friends to their death and couldn't force a benevolent smile. There were the usual onlookers, from the nobles leaning out of their windows to the young servants peeking around the stone pillars, every single one obvious in their attempts at being discreet. On the paving stones of the courtyard stood the people who were closest to Dean and Castiel, be it by function or by affection—although that didn't mean they were any more talkative.

Kristine Chambers, Dean's apprentice, held her jaw tightly shut as she clutched Impala's bridle in her hand. She'd spent hours the previous night trying to convince her master to let her come with them, even mentioning that time she'd saved him while they'd been hunting a couple of vetalas to remind him of how useful she could be. But it was partly because of that usefulness that Dean had held firm and refused to take her. That, and he didn't want her anywhere near a Leviathan, or an Alpha monster, or Hell, if he could avoid it.

Once he was settled in the saddle Krissy stepped back, throwing him a defiant glare as she joined Jo's side. The huntress was to pick up Dean's responsibilities while he was away, especially with Victor still out of commission. She was extremely pale, almost sickly so, with dark rings under her eyes and a worried frown on her face, the result of Dean's departure as well as the plight that had befallen her village. Her mother had arrived two days beforehand, with the announcement that the people there had been falling ill. The sickness, they'd found out, had begun spreading after the Queen's hunting trip—after the injured Leviathans had slipped back into the water. Their blood had dissolved into the stream and poisoned it. Queen Charlie, features drawn with sorrow and guilt, had ordered for the village to be evacuated. She'd given the inhabitants a choice: they could be escorted to any village where they had relatives willing to take them in or come to the castle where they would be housed and fed. It was a generous offer, one that hadn't surprised anyone in court who knew the Queen or her heart, but it could only be provisory. If the evil were to spread to other villages, in spite of the order that had been sent to start building water reserves in case of further contaminations, the castle wouldn't be able to host everyone in need.

Seeing the line of refugees who hadn't had anywhere else to go slowly crossing the drawbridge had cemented Dean and Castiel's determination to fulfill their mission no matter what.

Dean checked his apparel one last time to make sure that everything was in order. Given the nature of their journey he was taking his full hunter gear, and cut a striking figure, prepared to all eventualities. His warm undershirt and shirt were hidden under a thick leather tunic that'd protect him against most monsters, just like his breeches would protect him from the cold. Over it he wore the long, dark green coat the Queen provided for all her hunters. His equipment was completed by leather gauntlets and boots, as well as a solid belt to which he'd bound several pouches and a short sword. He also had a couple hidden knives, made out of silver or iron, as well as his quiver and bow slung over his shoulders. The rest of his things, his bags and rolled up blanket, were bound to his saddle.

Satisfied with his inspection he nodded at Krissy and Jo, then glanced in the knight's direction. Castiel had also mounted his horse, a white mare named Grace, slender but strong. She could appear puny in comparison to Dean's Impala—but at the same time the large, black mare made any horse seem puny and weak beside her. Dean had seen Grace on the field, had witnessed how swift and agile she was, how deadly and beautiful, how well she carried her name. She was an outstanding battle horse and Dean knew better than to look down on her—or on her rider.

Castiel's posture was impeccable, his shoulders straight while he spoke with Rachel, who would command the knights in his absence. After having given orders for his effects to be packed he'd spent most of the night in the castle's chapel, praying to his patron, the angel who'd given him his knightly name and bestowed its grace upon his blade. He'd come out at the first hints of dawn to get ready and was now wearing the dark blue cloak characteristic of the knights. Underneath he'd put on the usual getup of a warrior: a hauberk over a shirt and under a tunic emblazoned with his family crest. Castiel's was all in white and silver. His breeches were dark grey, and his leather boots looked as luxurious as his dark blue gloves. His main weapon was his sword, as beautifully forged as it was deadly, but he'd also taken the long knife with which every single member of his family was gifted upon reaching maturity.

As soon as the knight finished talking to his lieutenant, Samandriel, who had been standing beside Grace, spoke up, pleading for the same thing Krissy had. But Castiel interrupted him with barely a gesture, a raised hand followed by a sharp shake of the head, and the squire's mouth clamped shut. He looked down with a crestfallen expression on his face and stepped back in submission. Castiel nodded approvingly, met Rachel's eye to silently ask her to look after the young man, then turned away.

Dean, who had been following the whole scene, pursed his lips, a bit surprised by the knight's cold behavior and wondering if it portended just how nice it would be to spend entire days on the road with the man. He turned to his brother, who'd been checking the bags bound to Impala's saddle to make sure they contained everything he'd recommended Dean to take with him, and asked hopefully:

"Still no way you'll change your mind and come with me?"

There'd been a time, shortly after their father's death, during which Sam had refused to let Dean go out on his own, and they had traveled and hunted together. It had been a good time, for Dean, and for Sam too, for he had chosen to be there. It had brought them closer, and when the pull towards knowledge had drawn Sam back to his books and translations, that closeness had remained and made the temporary separations easier, because they'd known these wouldn't draw them apart, not anymore. Dean couldn't help but feel nostalgic of these few years, especially now. Sam was too, if the way he still accompanied Dean on some hunts was anything to go by. Yet this time he only laughed and shook his head.

"You know I can't. I have to find out what kind of person counts as a 'righteous mortal', finish the translation of the text brought by the Elves and figure out the spell _before_ you come back with the ingredients. I'll be the one needing help, not you."

Dean couldn't help but smile at Sam's faith in him, then noticed how his little brother's eyes had slipped to something over his shoulder and remained stuck there, as if he couldn't help it. Dean turned his head to follow his gaze up to the top of the stairs—to where the Elves were standing, partially hidden in the shadow of the doorway. Jessica was among them, standing up front so that the rising sun hit her unmistakeable blond curls.

Dean turned back to his brother with a knowing smirk. "Yeah, _right_."

Sam's eyes snapped back to his and a vivid flush spread onto his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he patted Impala's rear and took a step back. Dean opened his mouth to tease but was cut off by a sharp:

"Mr. Winchester."

He glanced up to meet Castiel's eyes and see the impatient curl of his mouth, his pointedly raised eyebrows.

"Anytime today?"

Dean exchanged another look with Sam and let his expression turn imploring. Sam shrugged apologetically, but his lips twitched in amusement, which made Dean scoff. He turned away with a wave and spurred Impala on to follow Castiel as he passed the gates and rode out of the castle.

 


	2. Through the Elder Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins! Here is [the map](http://i1140.photobucket.com/albums/n576/galwithglasses/811/SPN_0657_zps6e6d24fe.jpg) if you need to visualize things.

The first few days of travel were easy and good. The autumn gifted them with an unexpectedly blue and dry sky, thus allowing them to cover a lot of ground. Numerous flocks of birds flew overhead, ducks and geese, cranes and storks, swallows and finches speeding southwards to spend the winter in warmer climates.

The travelers' progress was helped by the fact that they were both indeed accustomed to being on the road and had fallen into a rhythm that surprised them by its easiness and efficiency. They took turns for watch during the night and to lead the way during the day. They stopped by mutual, if silent agreement when the light madet itself scarce, and once they'd set foot on the ground everything was ready for them to rest within minutes. No one knew how to hunt for food and prepare a meal as swiftly as Dean, while Castiel could set up camp with military precision in the blink of an eye and pack everything back up just as fast the following morning.

Both had to admit to themselves that the other knew what he was doing and that their first judgment might have been hasty and therefore partly false. Yet since they were both notoriously stubborn and would not acknowledge that their prejudices were unjustified and wrong, they spent the first days of their journey in nearly complete silence, only communicating in brief hand gestures and short sentences when the situation required it.

However, since they were each other's only company, it was only a matter of time before they unwittingly gave in. Soon enough, they found themselves beginning to talk more—and were pleasantly surprised.

Dean, Castiel found out, wasn't quite the uncouth, close-minded fool he'd assumed him to be. Even though he hadn't chosen the path of letters and study like his younger brother had, he was no less knowledgeable or sharp-witted. It was simply easily overlooked because of his rough exterior. The knight had also been wrong about the reasons why Dean had become a hunter. From what little he knew he'd surmised it was the result of nothing but blind obedience to the father who had raised him and his brother in this life. But contrary to John Winchester, whose mind had only ever strived after revenge against the monster that had taken his wife Mary from him, Dean didn't hunt out of a wish for retribution. He hunted so that no one would have to go through what he had at barely four years of age, losing his mother and, in a way, his father in a single, terrible night. He wanted to help people, needed it in part, loved it most of all, propelled by a care which Castiel found reflected in his own heart. That was why he'd joined the Queen's Huntsmen while his father never had, becoming a servant of the realm and of its people in one of the only ways that were open to someone who wasn't of noble blood.

That such a restriction based on birth even existed and most of all effortlessly maintained itself angered Dean to no end, especially since he'd been proven time and again that a noble ascent didn't always go hand in hand with a noble heart or character.

But despite the resentful wariness he'd developed towards titled people over the years, even he had to admit that Sir Castiel hadn't much in common with the supercilious barons or earls who often refused to host him or only did so reluctantly, filled with contempt and distrust. Under his rigid and somewhat harsh exterior, Castiel revealed himself oddly humble. What could come across as condescension was actually a strict observance of a very clear set of values, a standard to which he held himself and after which he expected everyone around him to strive, especially those in a position of power. As it turned out, he partly shared Dean's views on what possessing a title and benefitting from its privileges should entail in matters of ethics and obligations towards the people. Ever since he'd come of age he'd been on the kingdom's roads as a knight to fulfill that duty, representing the crown and following the angelic calling he'd received as a youth. His faith was a quiet thing, discreet but unwavering. It led him through official missions - and to many a task outside of them. He'd thus been responsible for more than one warlord ceasing to wreak havoc near the borders and for more than one baron losing the lands he hadn't governed properly.

Castiel thus found himself sharing the story of how he'd confronted Sir Uriel, who'd been trying to make his province rebel against the kingdom. In return Dean told him about several of his past hunts, about the monsters that hid behind the face of innocents and that he still had slain, about the innocents that looked like monsters but that he had spared. He talked about his brother, Sam, about how he often missed him but was also relieved to know him safe. Castiel conceded he missed his own family too, his twin brother James who oversaw the land of their father and his niece Claire who hoped to receive her own calling for she wanted to become a knight despite her mother's reservations.

They got along a little bit better with each passing day, an evolution that turned out to be favorable in more ways than one when their patience was soon put to the test.

Numerous people had tried to ascend Mount Neumandoor, pushed by the insatiable curiosity that characterizes certain human minds. Yet few had been the ones to succeed. The mountain was as impregnable as a fortress from most of its sides. The only practicable path, an almost forgotten trail meandering through loose stones, boulders and rifts, could only be found by those coming from the South; so that anyone wishing to climb the mountain had to pass through the Elder Forest first, the ancient sea of trees spreading from the River of Lost Souls to unknown regions in the East.

It was a place people avoided, filled with fearful rumors. There were tales of a deceptively clear light cutting through the leaves and hiding the coming of night until the unprepared traveler was caught in a pitch-black maze; whispers of twisting roots and bushes that cut off and blurred the winding paths, of unclear trails constantly disappearing or even moving, of magic permeating the earth and the air—a power that didn't like to be disturbed and led intruders astray, made them go around in circles.

Dean, who had started tracking beasts and monsters before his brother could even walk, thought nothing of it at first. He knew what magic could and couldn't do, had been confronted to it on more than one occasion, and put the rumors down to tall tales made up by parents wishing to keep their children away from the woods and would-be hunters that didn't know the first thing about following the trail of a clumsy boar. Paying no heed to the warnings they'd gotten in the last hamlet they'd stopped at, he entered the forest without fear, his keen eyes intent on the path they guessed at through the undergrowth.

Castiel was more circumspect, but followed without voicing his own doubts, as they didn't have the luxury of choice.

Two days later Dean had to admit that what the knight had surmised from the start was true. The worried murmurs they'd been given to hear did hold a grain of truth. Their progress had been torturously slow, constantly impeded by the twists and turns of the tortuous path that was so difficult to follow that it might not even exist. After the first hours Dean had dismounted to be closer to the ground and thus see better, but even then he felt like he was always on the verge of losing the track entirely.

"Dean," Castiel softly called out when the hunter stopped once more to frown at the dead leaves covering the ground and at the low branches hindering their progress, trying to discern a spot where they might show signs of previous passage. Dean closed his eyes and let his breath out slowly.

"What?" he tried—and failed—not to snap.

"The tree."

Castiel gestured up ahead, slightly to the right, where an old oak tree stood whose trunk split into three large branches that leaned outwards like arms opening for an embrace. Its foliage was in the midst of turning from a deep green to a fiery red, straying towards a bright yellow that seemed to shine from within. It was exactly the kind of tree of which any traveler in a foreign region would take note as a landmark, even if subconsciously.

It looked familiar.

"Let me guess," Dean sighed. "You recognize the tree."

Castiel was loath to confirm his fears: "It'll be the second time we pass it."

Lips pressed into a thin line, Dean tightened his hold on Impala's bridle and cautiously stepped forward, eyes scanning the ground. Now that it had been pointed out, he indeed remembered that oak, remembered veering to the left to avoid its low yet far-reaching branches. That they'd managed to double back while staying on what appeared to be the path and trying to maintain their course northwards in spite of its detours was preoccupying enough, but what struck and worried Dean the most was that he could see no trace of their first passage. It looked like no one had ever threaded on the leaves strewn on the earth and roots, like no breath of air had ever displaced them, like no body or fabric had ever snagged a branch into bending or breaking. The forest around them was as intact and quiet as it had been when they'd first entered it, softly echoing with the distant trill of birds that never came closer and the faint rustle of leaves in branches that barely swayed. It was a suspended space in which time left so little trace it might not pass at all.

Dean pushed down the unease uncoiling at the pit of his stomach and walked up to the tree until he could put a hand on its bark. It felt rough under his palm, solid, looked entirely normal but for the lack of insects running along the cracks and nooks, climbing up the twigs or burrowing under the moss. It was, like the rest of the forest, unnervingly static. When he stepped back to look around, he couldn't see any clearer way that'd explain why he'd previously chosen to go to the left. On the contrary, the trees appeared to be more spaced out on the right. He sighed in irritation and rubbed a hand over his face, then turned around when Impala bumped her snout against his shoulder in question. He patted her appeasingly and his eyes fell on the bags tied to her saddle, the bags that Sam had packed for him with as much fuss as a mother hen.

"Wait a minute," he muttered.

He came closer and undid the lace holding one of the bags closed to rummage through it, paying no attention to the way Grace had begun pawing the ground in faint impatience. Castiel shushed her with a hand to her neck and got down to come closer.

"What is it?" he asked when he saw the small circular object the hunter had taken out. It looked like a clock, but its single hand pointed at letters instead of numbers.

"A compass," Dean replied, turning it between his fingers. "It's used by sailors, it's supposed to indicate North. Could be helpful since our sense of direction seems to have been screwed to hell, but..."

But even though he'd tilted the object so that it was perfectly horizontal, its hand remained unstable, swaying from one point to the other like the ships it guided on a stormy sea, stumbling this way and that like an unexperienced sailor on their rolling decks.

"Something is at work in these woods," Castiel said. "And whatever it is, it affects that thing's magic too."

"Except it's not," Dean retorted softly, scowling at the compass as if he could frighten it into working. "Magic. Sam prefers to rely on science. That thing's supposed to react to Earth's magnetic fields."

"It doesn't change a thing: that device still doesn't work." Castiel hesitated, then added: "The villagers did warn us about magic."

Dean scoffed derisively as he put the compass back into the bag, which he deftly laced shut.

"Yeah, right. Except that something as big as magnetic fields aren't that easy to mess with. It would require powerful magic, which begs the question: why?"

Brow furrowed, he let his eyes rove over the trees, up their trunks, along their branches and to the tips of the leaves that hid the sky from view, searching, wondering. Castiel could see the hunter at work, trying to put the pieces together, to find out what picture they made up.

"If a convent lived in these woods they'd make sure we leave as fast as possible without noticing their presence," Dean said, voice low. "It would have to be a lone witch. But if she used a spell to trap travelers, she'd already have jumped us by now. Or she would be leading us somewhere, right where she needs us. But she isn't. And what would she use us for, anyway? If she's already powerful enough for her sphere of influence to extend to the whole forest, why would she bother staying here, waiting for travelers that barely ever come, when she could just as easily go fetch anyone whenever she wanted, wherever they are? I doesn't add up." He shook his head and his frown deepened. "A witch wouldn't play with her victims like that, she'd use the fastest way to get what she wants. Witches aren't like-"

He abruptly stopped talking.

"She might be the sorceress we're looking for and expecting to find on Mount Neumandoor," Castiel suggested. "Maybe all the wants is to be left alone and she causes people to disappear as a warning and deterrent."

"Or maybe it's not witchcraft at all," Dean countered, and the knight was surprised by the dread he saw dawning in the hunter's eyes. He tilted his head to the side, but when he opened his mouth to ask another, strangely accented voice came to cover his to the hunter's ears:

"Ding ding ding," it twittered. "Will you look at that. Turns out that Big Boy here might not be as stupid as he looks."

Dean whirled around and looked up, hand coming up to rest on the hilt of his short sword, ready to draw.

"Dean?" Castiel asked uncertainly just as the hunter caught sight of the one who had spoken, for the knight hadn't heard anything. It only served to confirm Dean's fears and insure that who he saw wasn't human, even though it looked like it. It had the appearance of a somewhat skinny man with angular features and messy, dirty blond hair and beard, clothed in a tight fitting tunic and breeches in dark greens and brown. It was lounging on one of the oak's main branches like one would on a bed, but straightened up slightly when Dean met its gaze, its eyebrows shooting up.

"You can hear and see me?" it asked, an intrigued and wicked smile taking over its face. "My my, wonders never cease. What a delightful surprise."

Dean narrowed his eyes, knowing from experience that what counted as 'delightful' to such creatures rarely meant anything good for humans. He took a wary step back and drew his sleeve knife when the thing slid down from its perch to land on the ground in front of them.

"I should've known," he muttered.

" _I_ should've known," the creature retorted, eyes roving over him. "He doesn't," it added, tilting its head towards Castiel when the knight asked Dean what the problem was, what he was seeing, hand gripping the hilt of his sword in wait of an assault he knew he might not see coming. "But _you_... You have Oberon's mark all over you. And-" The creature reached out as if to brush its fingers on Dean's shoulder, but the hunter took another step back, raising his knife in warning. "-even some of dear Tinker Bell's utterly disgusting fairy dust." It looked pointedly at the small weapon. "Boy, do you really think you can hurt me with that little pointy stick?"

Dean didn't let the creature's mocking scoff deter him. "Oh, believe me. I know just how to apply that silver blade right where it tickles. And-" he added as he held up a vial filled with finely ground salt with his other hand. "I have this. Fancy playing a game?"

The creature's face froze briefly.

"Well, don't you come prepared," it said with a tight smile, watchful eyes lingering on the small container. They both knew that a small flick of the wrist would be all Dean needed to spill its content all over the ground and thus force the creature to drop down and start counting the grains one by one—a prospect it was less than enchanted by.

"Dean, who are you talking to?" Castiel asked again, and the creature rolled its eyes.

"Me, okay?" it snapped, turning to the knight and probably becoming visible to him, if the way Castiel startled was any indication. "He's talking to me. Balthazar, to serve you," it added with a derisive curtsey. "Or, you know, not."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, not appreciating the mockery. Balthazar grinned.

"Right," Dean growled. "What do you want?"

Asking that question might be useless, he knew, since the likes of Balthazar enjoyed messing with people just for the sake of it. The situation they were in now, alive but entirely lost and frustrated, was proof enough. The creature's eyes slid to Castiel a second time before they snapped back to him, making him tense in suspicion.

"Nothing," Balthazar claimed with an innocent smile neither Dean nor Castiel trusted. "Which is why I'll be going now. Boys—it's been a pleasure."

He jumped backwards and disappeared with a twirl.

"Son of a bitch," Dean cursed, looking around before sheathing his knife and passing a hand over his face. "Faeries. We're in a forest infested with freaking faeries."

"That was a faerie?" Castiel wondered out loud, staring at the spot where the creature had been standing.

"A Leprechaun, yeah. Which means that, basically, we're screwed."

"This shouldn't come as a surprise to you," the knight retorted. "We were told-"

"We were told nothing but vague old wives' tales about magic and badly kept paths," Dean cut in. "But damn it, I should've known. After all, it's not like people in these backwater holes ever know what they're dealing with."

"They knew about the magic."

"They didn't know jack squat, okay?" Dean snapped. "Faerie magic has nothing to do with ours, _nothing_. It doesn't come from our world, it doesn't follow the same rules. Hell, I'm not even sure it has any rules. Don't you get it?" he added, the question coming close to a shout. "We're on their territory. I bet the whole forest connects to their realm - which means that if they don't want us to get out? We don't get out. Which, guess what? Is clearly what's been happening up until now."

Castiel had straightened and his tone was cutting when he replied: "There's no need for you to raise your voice or disparage me. I might not have been confronted to faeries up until now but-"

"Yeah, well," Dean snorted. "Good for you."

Paying no heed to the way the knight narrowed his eyes at him, he turned away to stride back to Impala's side. The mare nuzzled his hand when he reached out to seize her bridle, but Castiel couldn't help but feel that she was watching him over her master's shoulder, guarded and reproachful.

"You can see them," the knight spoke again, more quietly, gazing thoughtfully at the rigid line of Dean's shoulders as he put two and two together. "Even when they don't want you to."

"Yes, I can," the hunter grunted in answer, checking the straps of Impala's saddle then talking to her in an undertone. Castiel understood that he shouldn't press the matter—not that he needed to. As unfamiliar as he was with faeries, he knew what had to have happened in order for Dean to have obtained the ability to see through their concealments. "Which is why I know exactly how deep the shit we're in is."

"So what do you suggest we do?" the knight asked, slowly walking closer to Grace as the hunter seemed intent on slinging himself back onto his saddle.

"Go back, out of here, and try to find another way," Dean replied once he was settled.

Castiel frowned. "But you just said-"

"Impala's always been able to find her way home, to retrace her route and go back the exact way she came," Dean explained, patting the mare's neck with a proud, fond smile and making her shook her head with a snort. "She's smart like that."

"Will it be enough?" Castiel asked, distractedly caressing Grace when she started to nibble at his shoulder, intrigued.

Dean avoided his gaze and tugged on Impala's reins to make her turn around. "Let's hope so."

*

The night surprised them before they could know if they'd made any headway. It came upon them suddenly, like it had the two previous times, the unchanging light concealing the slow decline of the sun until it disappeared behind the horizon. Darkness surged around them like the rising tide in the middle of a bay, soon leaving them groping for fire wood and for a spot with enough space for them to settle for the night.

They gave grain to the horses and ate some dried meat and bread in silence. They hadn't exchanged a word since they'd turned around, Castiel still miffed at Dean for taking his frustration out on him and Dean too anxious, turning his head at the faintest sound and eager to leave the woods behind. If the canopy had let any starlight filter through, he would've pressed for them to ride on instead of resting. But the darkness was so deep and thick that it would have been no use to try.

Castiel offered to take first watch, to which Dean surprisingly agreed. He laid down on his spread out blanket and turned his back to the fire, thus hiding the tense expression that hadn't left his face since their confrontation with the Leprechaun.

The knight settled more comfortably on the fallen trunk they'd found as a modest shelter and stoked the fire, taking comfort in its crackles and snaps, in the soft shuffling and snuffling of the horses, even in Dean's deepening breathing. Apart from these sounds the forest was eerily quiet—no owls hooting, no nocturnal beasts creeping out of their burrows to hunt, not even a breeze making the trees rustle. It felt like there was nothing beyond the small but warm island lighted by their fire, nothing but a void, black ocean of darkness threatening to swallow them.

Castiel might've been used to long watches that stretched deep into the night, but he was used to them accompanied by the constant background noise of a forest that never quite slept or of a camp in which men kept coming and going at all hours. The thick silence pressing down on them unnerved him.

Behind him, Impala suddenly snorted and stomped on the ground, as if something had disturbed her, catching his attention. He squinted at the shadows, strained his ears, but couldn't see or hear anything. After a while, the mare quietened down, but he kept watching, aware that there might be something out there that he couldn't perceive.

When he finally brought his eyes back to the fire, the Leprechaun was sitting with his legs crossed on the other side of it.

"Dean-" Castiel called, reaching for his sword and ready to jump to his feet.

The faerie only smirked and nonchalantly leaned back on his hands. "I wouldn't bother," he said. "Our boy here won't be waking up anytime soon."

"What did you do to him?" the knight growled, hand tightly curled around the hilt of his blade. It would probably hurt the creature, being made of iron, inlaid with silver and blessed with an angel's grace, but he had no idea if it would be enough to kill, or even if he would be swift enough to land a blow. He felt stupid all of a sudden for spending the afternoon in stubborn, vexed silence. He should've used these hours to ask Dean if there was anything they could do against faeries, what his sleeve knife was made of, what he'd threatened to do with that vial of salt and why.

"Nothing bad," the Leprechaun replied with a dismissive hand gesture. "He needs more sleep, anyway. You shouldn't have to put up with such a cranky companion, really. So let's agree I did a good thing. Plus, I want to talk to you, preferably without interruption."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"I _like_ you," the Leprechaun grinned. "And I'm going to help you."

A silence followed.

"Impala won't be able to find our way back," Castiel guessed. "You'll make sure of it."

The faerie pursed his lips. "Actually, she might succeed. That beast is annoyingly impervious to our power. But," he added with a confident smile. "Nothing is less sure. And anyways, it's not what you want, is it? Going back the way you came. You want to go to the mountain. And you want to reach it as fast as possible."

Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line, not liking how much Balthazar seemed to know about them. The Leprechaun leaned forward.

"Tomorrow, you'll find a trail," he said. "Follow it. And don't leave it, not for a second. If you do, you'll never find it again, and this time I won't even bother to come save you from your own stupidity." He raised his eyebrows pointedly. "That trail will lead you to the northern edge of the forest. There you'll find the path to the mountain—although why anyone would wish to go there baffles me, if I'm being honest."

Castiel waited for Balthazar to go on, but nothing came.

"Why should I trust you?" he finally asked.

The Leprechaun laughed. "Warned against my kind, were you? That's not surprising, most humans don't understand our notion of hospitality and they rarely leave our premisses with good memories, if they leave them at all. But here is why: you're doing to do something for me in return."

"And what would that be?" the knight asked, because even though he knew that a faerie was obliged by its very nature to hold any promise it made, to honor any agreement it entered, he was convinced that whatever Balthazar wanted would either be impossible to provide or have terrible consequences.

"It's simple," Balthazar replied gamely. "One day you'll have a garden, be it on this Earth or somewhere else, just the way you want it." He noticed Castiel clenching his teeth and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't look at me like that, of course I know that too."

'That' being a fact that very few people knew: that ever since he'd been a child, Castiel had taken refuge in the gardens—his mother's, then later the Queen's—whenever he wanted to be alone, to feel quiet and at peace. That he preferred to wander through the bushes and flower beds in the early hours of the morning, when they were still deserted but when the fragrances were at their strongest, fresh and damp, startling and sweet. That he enjoyed standing still while the insects and birds shook off their sleep and started their dance all over again, while the dark sky brightened into a clearer blue, waking the lively colors that had been forgotten during the night. That sometimes, during periods of trial and tiredness, he would imagine himself there, picture himself as an old man, a retired soldier freed from his duties and tending his own garden, bringing flowers into bloom and letting bees feast on their nectar—a beautiful but utterly futile dream, he knew, for chances were that he would die on the battlefield long before it could become a possibility.

It didn't prevent that picture from sticking to his mind like the phantom pain of a limb he never knew he'd lost.

"When you have that garden," Balthazar went on softly, as if he knew that mentioning these things was toeing a line he shouldn't cross. "I want you to plant this." He held out a hand over the fire. In his palm rested a white, faintly glowing stone. A crystal, maybe.

"What is it?" Castiel asked. "And what will it do?"

"This is... a seed, if you will. From our realm. As for what it does, it'll probably grow into a tree—which will be of absolutely no use to you, except perhaps for the purely aesthetic value. I'll advise you not to try and eat the fruits. And for me..." Balthazar brought his hand back towards himself, turning the crystal and tracing its angles and lines with his fingers. "As you may know, we faeries can't roam the world freely. We can be summoned, but we can only voluntarily pass from one realm to the other in places that have been touched by our magic, and only in these places. Like this forest. We can't leave it to go traipsing about the plains and hills, and it only grows slowly. Atrociously slowly. And sometimes..." His lips curled into a pinched smile. "Well, to put it bluntly, sometimes I'm sick and tired of my own kind, you know? Bunch of whiny, sparkly little shits, the whole of them. And this here," he said, raising the stone, "would be my very own, very private shortcut to some well-deserved and much needed peace and quiet."

"You want me to give you access to other parts of our world," Castiel said slowly.

"Exactly."

"And what makes you think that I'd feel inclined to do that?"

Balthazar sighed. "Let me guess. There is no way you'll help me in what will undoubtedly result in nothing but me spreading more mischief and pain since you, as a fearless knight, have a duty to protect the people and ensure they live a peaceful life, whereas we all know that faeries are nothing but wretched, wicked creatures, yada, yada, yada." He rolled his eyes again. "You realize that humans aren't at the center of the universe, don't you? Contrary to what you may believe, our purpose as living beings isn't to be a pain in your ass. We just get... bored. And well, you're so numerous, and literally everywhere, and you're so _easy_. By the stars above, sometimes I'd swear you've lost all survival instinct." He shook his head in a display of incredulity. "Anyway, if you think that this here is some sort of evil plan to spread chaos and despair, let me reassure you: it's not. I'll admit that if any young, pretty, naive child were to carelessly wander in the vicinity of my refuge, the temptation might be too great to resist. But one, I don't think you, the righteous knight, would let any innocent soul come within harm's way and two, apart from that? I don't care—about you, about humans, about your boring little lives or the many ways I could make them go wrong. I want this for me. Oh, and three?" He grinned. "This is my only offer. Take it or leave it, but if you choose the latter, I doubt you'll last long around here. That thing there-" He jerked his head towards Impala. "-might have a chance to get you out as it is, but believe me, there are other ways to ensure she won't than toying with her mind. You will get lost—or, you know, _remain_ lost—and then die of boredom, if not hunger." His grin turned into a more sinister smirk. "Have you noticed that you haven't stumbled upon anything you might eat or drink? No deers, no hares, no berries. No river, no brook."

"So this is a threat," Castiel summed up.

"Oh, please," the Leprechaun snapped. "No, it isn't. Not _really_. I'm just giving you... an incentive. Like I said, we're not all out to get you. Remember dear Gilda, will you? Goody two-shoes Gilda. Now here's one I bet you wouldn't hesitate to trust. You would agree to do this for her without a second thought—if not for you, then for the sake of your Queen."

He sounded extremely peeved about that.

Castiel pursed his lips. He indeed remembered Gilda - remembered how she'd been trapped by the magic that had summoned her to the earthly realm and forced her to use her powers to hurt people against her will. He remembered how grateful she'd been when Charlie had freed her, how she'd done as much as she could for as long as she could to help her consolidate her position as Queen, gracefully turning the odds in her favor. He remembered when she'd had to go back to her world, for a faerie that wasn't tethered to Earth by a spell would inevitably fade away, drained of its essence, if it stayed away from its realm for too long.

Gilda was a good faerie, a light faerie, and yes, Castiel would trust her. But he had no way of knowing if Balthazar, if Leprechauns entered the same category—or even if such categories really existed. Was there an actual difference between light and dark magic that the faeries themselves acknowledged, or was it simply a classification made by humans because they didn't have the same values, the same definition of what was right and wrong?

"Tell you what," Balthazar spoke again, albeit with reluctance. "If you do this for me, I might feel inclined to share the existence of this new pied-à-terre with our mutual acquaintance. Who knows, she might come for a visit from time to time. Like when your beloved Queen is nearby." He shrugged when Castiel looked up, surprised by the offer. "What can I say? I'm a romantic at heart. And the lamentation songs I keep hearing about their doomed love in both realms are _really_ getting on my nerves." He smiled again. "So, what will it be?" he asked, proffering the crystal.

Castiel glanced back at Dean, feeling torn and wishing the hunter were awake. There was no doubt he knew more about faeries and their tricks than the knight, knew what to expect. But that was why he'd been enchanted to sleep until Balthazar decided otherwise, wasn't it? If Dean were awake to give his opinion, he would probably refuse to take the deal. Which meant that Castiel should, too.

But the offer was tempting, extremely so. They were on a quest to save their kingdom, the priority was to carry it out as fast as possible so that the Leviathans could be fought and annihilated before they could inflict too much damage on the land and its people. The danger they represented was widely superior to anything Castiel had ever known a faerie to cause. Ascending Mount Neumandoor was nothing but the first step of their journey, and it might be a dead end already, since there was no guarantee that the sorceress for whom they were looking really existed. The less time they spent on that pursuit, the better.

Besides, it would most certainly be a long time before Castiel would have the occasion to honor his part of the deal, if he ever did on this Earth. Meanwhile he could learn everything he could about faeries, find out how to control or at least hinder them, how to prevent Balthazar from extending his sphere of influence beyond the one the crystal would produce. He could make sure he knew how to kill a Leprechaun if needed be and if it was possible, how to send it back where it belonged, how to destroy the gateway the stone would create. He felt confident he could control this if it ever came to be.

For now, the bigger picture took precedence over what might one day grow in his hypothetical garden.

So he took a breath, reached out a hand and silently plucked the stone from the faerie's fingers. Even through his glove it felt strangely cool, buzzing with the prickling energy of concentrated, foreign magic.

"Fabulous," Balthazar exclaimed at once, standing up with a bright smile and dusting himself off. "Have a wonderful time on your little journey. I'll tell Gilda your Queen sends her love."

And with that, he disappeared again, leaving Castiel alone before he could reconsider his decision.

*

Dean slept soundly through the whole night, something he wasn't happy about once he'd woken up—just like he wasn't happy about the choice Castiel had made in the meantime. In his opinion faeries were never, under any circumstances, to be trusted.

"Why?" Castiel finally asked as he fastened his rolled up blanket to Grace's saddle, defensive and exasperated because his reasons for accepting the deal were sound and he didn't hear any explanation for Dean's very loud protests.

Dean threw up his hands. "Because they're faeries!"

"And as a faerie Balthazar is now bound by his word to hold his end of the bargain," Castiel countered. "He has no reasons not to, especially since us getting out of here is a prerequisite to me doing my part one day."

"Oh, so you're on first name basis already? How nice," Dean sneered as he finished testing that all the straps of Impala's saddle and halter were properly set. "Have you ever heard of things sounding too good to be true? 'Cause this, right here? This is one of them." He tugged on the bridle to encourage Impala to follow him as he started walking in the same direction they'd been going in the day before.

"It is a simple exchange," Castiel protested, going after him. "Us getting out of this forest against him having the possibility to get out of his realm."

"That's what _he_ said. But how can you know for certain? You have no idea what that stone is, or what it really does."

"And _you_ do?"

"No," Dean snapped, stopping and spinning on his heels. "And that's the problem! It could open doorways between the faerie realm and Earth all over the place, everywhere you go, for all you know!"

"Which would undoubtedly be a great win for them since we're headed towards a desolate mountain and plan to enter Purgatory and Hell," Castiel bit back, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Dean turned back and started walking again. "Yeah, that's if—and that's a big _if_ —we ever get out of here like we want to!"

"Which Balthazar should therefore ensure we do, if his plan is to get access to other territories," Castiel insisted, painfully aware that their argument was going around in circles.

Dean threw him a furious look over his shoulder, obviously displeased at seeing the contradictions in his objections so starkly brought to light. "And where's the path he promised you'd find, eh? Because I don't see it and I certainly won't go looking for it. No way I'll give them the pleasure of watching us get lost and go out of our mi-"

The ground suddenly dipped under his feet, making him stumble, and he barely caught himself thanks to his hold on Impala's bridle. The mare whinnied in protest at the sharp tug, making Dean turn around again as soon as he'd regained his balance to check her mouth to make sure he hadn't hurt her.

"And I believe this is our path," Castiel said.

Indeed, the small depression in the ground Dean had tripped over turned out to be an unmistakable trail cutting through the undergrowth. The hunter glared down at it, then glared up at the knight, who remained impassible but for the faintest shadow of a smirk curving the edge of his mouth.

"We should follow it," Castiel said after a while, since Dean remained silent and unmoving.

"Should we?" Dean grunted in answer, and Castiel lost his patience.

"Do as you wish," he retorted as he swung himself into Grace's saddle. "I am taking it. Feel free to go back home."

And, without waiting for a reaction, he clucked his tongue at Grace who started following the trail without further prompting. Dean stared after him, not quite believing the knight's nerve, then let out a loud stream of curses as he followed his example. He brought Impala to a light canter in order to catch up with Grace and, once he was close enough, conceded:

"Fine, we can try it. But I'm warning you: if at the end of the day it doesn't look like we've made any progress we're going back, and we're going my way."

Castiel bit back a protest that one day probably wouldn't be enough for them to know for sure, as he figured quite correctly that his lack of reaction would be all the more irritating for the hunter. He caught a tight and quite insulting grumble about noblemen followed by some vain threats, then Dean fell into a sullen silence.

Now that they were riding more swiftly and didn't have to keep their eyes on the ground in search of an elusive path, the forest appeared more pleasant. The foliage was slowly donning brighter hues to start its autumnal dance, a valse in yellow and red, orange and brown. Hushed quiet still permeated the empty undergrowth, only disturbed by the muffled rustling and thudding of hooves on the ground. The air smelled of dry leaves, of moss and resin, and Castiel breathed in, feeling tension leave him now that he felt that they had a clear purpose, that they were moving forward.

Dean too had to grudgingly appreciate their change of pace, but he couldn't relax. He kept catching movements out of the corner of his eye, almost hearing faint echoes of laughter. Yet whenever he turned his head he never saw anything. He didn't know if this was the result of his excessive wariness or if the forest's inhabitants were toying with him just because they could. Just because all the faeries he'd encountered since that first time had remembered it and held a grudge that they loved to take out on him. After all, it was all a game to them.

Up front Castiel could hear the hunter shifting uneasily in his saddle and breathing deep and slow to calm himself. And after a while the knight felt his vindictive satisfaction recede into a faint irritation mixed with understanding. He didn't know under which circumstances Dean had been confronted to faeries in the past, but obviously they hadn't been pleasant, which would explain his recalcitrance.

It didn't mean he was justified or in anyway excused for being so contrary and aggressive towards Castiel himself. But still, Castiel found himself hoping that Balthazar's offer indeed wasn't a trick, for Dean's sake as well as his own.

They didn't stop to eat, neither of them willing to prolong their stay if there was a possibility for them to get out, and simply opted for going on on foot after a few hours in order to let the horses rest a bit. When they climbed back into the saddle, the forest still looked the same, neither thicker or thinner, the path meandering through trees and bushes as far as they could see.

Castiel began to worry, felt it grow in time with his and Grace's weariness and started to wonder how long they would have to ride in any direction to even approach the end of the forest—when suddenly, at a bend in the path, they came out of the trees, the darkening sky opening wide and endless above them. A small plain stretched out in front of them. Further away it started to climb in small hills towards the steeper slopes of the mountain whose snowy peak speared the dizzying immensity as if reaching for the first glimmering stars.

Grace snorted in surprise and came to a stop within a few feet of the forest, allowing Impala to come up to her side. Castiel and Dean exchanged an almost incredulous glance—and Castiel raised his eyebrows in a silent _Well?_ Dean huffed and slung his right leg over the saddle, landing on the ground with a thump. He wandered off without a word before Castiel could do the same, to stretch his legs and work off his vexation. The knight led the horses further into the valley, choosing the shelter of a couple of boulders that had tumbled off the mountain a long time ago over that of the forest, which he hoped he would never have to enter again.

Their camp was set up, the fire going brightly and the horses contentedly grazing nearby when Dean came back. He had his slingshot in one hand and was carrying two rabbits over his shoulder, bound by a string. Upon seeing that Castiel felt the same hunger gnaw at his stomach than the one that had pushed Impala and Grace to voraciously attack the grass around them as soon as they'd been relieved of their saddles and halters. During the four days they'd spent in the forest they'd had to rely on their provisions, only allowing themselves small portions because they hadn't thought they'd have to start using them so soon and didn't know how long they'd have to make them hold. Fresh meat was therefore a welcome change.

They worked efficiently together to prepare the rabbits and settled down to eat. The meat was hot, almost burning their fingers and tongue, but its taste was a delight after several days of nothing but stale bread and jerky. They savored it with the devout silence that comes with a good meal. Once most of it was gone, though, Castiel found his eyes straying towards the edge of the forest. It was still quiet, dark and looming, and he thought of the creatures that lurked there, beyond sight, of what they were capable of. He wondered what had happened to the humans that had disappeared in there, if they'd come out too far away to ever come back or not, why the Leprechaun had decided to treat him differently.

Dean followed his line of sight. Now that they were out and away from the trees he was calmer, rid of the anxiety and memories that had plagued him since he'd realized what they'd foolishly stepped into. After a while he said: "I was sixteen."

Castiel turned back towards him, knowing at once what he was talking about. The hunter kept looking at the trees, eyes lined with tension. His voice was low and rough as he went on: "Dad had left us at this cabin at the edge of the woods while he left on a hunt—not these woods here, another forest, further up north. He told us one thing before he left: do not to go in there." He looked back down at his fingers that were playing with one of the rabbits' bones. "But one night, we were bored, it had been days, I took Sammy—Sam—out to catch fireflies. And I don't know, we focused too hard on the chase and not enough on each other, but suddenly I looked around and I couldn't see him anymore. I figured the idiot had followed one of the flies into the trees and I went after him. Thing was, he found his way back all on his own eventually, once the fireflies were gone—but I didn't." He threw the bone into the fire. "Good thing he wasn't as stupid as me and did as he was told. He didn't try to go back in there to find me. He wouldn't have, anyway."

Castiel was still looking at him, eyes grave and dark over the fire. "How did you get away?" he asked softly.

"Well, at first I thought my dad would come get me. But-" He trailed off and shrugged, before adding in a more subdued voice: "And then I guess they weren't expecting a poor commoner's kid to have a silver knife and know how to use it as soon as he got the occasion."

"Your father must have been relieved that you'd managed to escape on your own. And proud."

Dean's only response was a humorless chuckle.

He didn't add anything. He didn't tell Castiel how he'd only found his way back after two months had passed on Earth, how John had welcomed him back by asking where the hell he'd been, what he'd thought he'd been doing, leaving Sam alone like that. He didn't tell him about the look in his father's eyes when Dean had explained, when John had simply retorted that he'd told them not to go into the woods, that what had happened had better serve Dean as a lesson. He didn't tell Castiel any of that, and yet he could feel the knight's eyes on him, piercing and thoughtful, guessing at more than the hunter felt comfortable with. He avoided Castiel's gaze and started shuffling through the small pile of fire wood gathered beside him.

"You should sleep," he said as he picked one piece up, short but thick, and turned it between his fingers. "You didn't get any shut eye last night."

Castiel didn't put up any resistance, simply nodding before he stood up to go check on Grace. When he came back he lied down on the ground without a word, rolled up in his blanket. He fitted it tight around himself like a cocoon, tucking his face into the folds until only its upper half and his hair were peeking out. It made him look like a child, nothing like the deadly warrior he could be on the battlefield or even during tournaments. Dean, who would lay out his blanket on the ground and sprawl on it, ready to jump up at the first sign of danger, couldn't quite understand it. But who knew, he thought, maybe Castiel slept differently, less trustingly, when he was alone, when no one was there watching over him.

After he'd tested the feel of the wood against his fingers, its weight and lines, the hunter unsheathed the iron knife hidden in his right boot and started whittling away at it. From where he was lying, Castiel watched him through half-closed eyes, watched the light of the fire dance on his features, on his focused expression, in his eyes. He watched the minute and regular movements of his arms and hands as he carved and let the faint, repetitive sound of it lull him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Overhead the stars slowly turned while the mountain stood still, looming in wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions or want to come say hi, I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com), so don't hesitate! :)


	3. Up Mount Neumandoor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for blood and (canon-typical) violence**. Monsters appear and get killed and it isn't pretty.
> 
> You can still find the map [here](http://i1140.photobucket.com/albums/n576/galwithglasses/811/SPN_0657_zps6e6d24fe.jpg) if you feel like you need it.

The following morning the sun rose shrouded in clouds, which sprayed a faint drizzle that gently drew Dean out of his sleep and made Castiel look up from the carved wooden knight he'd found near the fire when he'd started second watch. He handed it back to its maker, who wordlessly slid it into one of his pouches, and stood up. They stretched a bit, packed their things and prepared the horses for another day.

The rain had stopped when they set off on foot, the clouds thinning and the sun shyly peeking through. They easily found the path and followed it as it led them over and beyond the hills, onto the western side of a valley opening to the northeast. The trail ran horizontally until it reached the stream in the middle, alongside which it started climbing. The travelers briefly stopped there to fill their goatskins, noticing as they did so how the water plunged under a cluster of rocks further down, continuing its course underground before it reached the forest.

Turning their back to it and to the high hills, they started their ascension.

The way was steep in places but the air was cool, humid with dew. The rising sun only reached the crest of the valley, leaving the rest in shadows. By the time it had climbed high enough in the sky to turn some bends of the stream into a dazzling ballet of droplets the travelers had parted from it to zig-zag their way up the western slope and reach the pass opening onto the Mount Neumandoor massif itself.

They paused at the view spreading out in front of them: the summits looming in the distance, and in between another wide valley, plowed into the earth by a wild stream they could hear but not see, hidden as it was underneath the trees growing on its bank. The path went on on the eastern side of the valley, which was bathed in light now that the day had turned past noon. Dean and Castiel left the pass, climbing down until the wind blowing over it didn't reach them anymore, and looked for a place to rest.

They found it beside a brook hopping from rock to rock, running around a couple of birch trees then rushing further down. They took the bags from the horses and let them go freely. Castiel settled down on a flat stone, munching on a slice of dry meat, while Dean stepped towards the stream to freshen up. He divested himself of his coat, his leather tunic, his shirt and undershirt and splashed water onto his face and under his arms, hissing at its iciness. The sound turned into an offended roar when Impala, who'd been drinking several feet above him, suddenly jumped in his direction, sending a small wave flying and landing all over his back. The hunter whirled around and swiped an arm to splash his mount in retaliation, which was exactly what she'd been aiming for: she snorted and shook herself in delight at the fresh feeling of the drops on her coat. Upon noticing that, Dean rolled his eyes but cupped his hands in the stream to gather more water, which he spilled over her snout. Grace, who'd been watching the scene unfold from several feet away, cautiously stepped forward, intrigued, and was pleasantly surprised when she received the same treatment, accompanied by a soft smile.

Castiel felt his own lips curve, but schooled his features and looked away as soon as Dean turned around, unwilling to be caught. The hunter used one of his shirt sleeves to summarily dry himself then swiftly put his clothes back on, covering his freckled shoulders and the pentagram tattooed over his heart, a necessary protection for hunters against the demons they often found themselves confronted with.

They ate and drank a bit more, then resumed their journey. The path was less steep now, running alongside the valley, and Dean was in a good mood, spurred by the effort of a good walk. He breathed in to savor the air and warm smell of the yellowing grass, spoke about a wendigo he'd once tracked with his brother in the mountains surrounding Mount Mordorg and asked Castiel if the heights surrounding the fjords of Wen-Findlay looked anything like the high hills around them.

The knight dryly replied that in his dealings with the Orcs dwelling north of these fjords he had rarely had the time to stop and admire the landscape, as it would've been a good way of getting himself stupidly killed in combat. Then he admitted in a more subdued tone that as beautiful as the snowy peaks falling right into the sea might've appeared in the clear, pinkish light of dawn, their splendor had irremediably been marred by the blood spilled in their shadows, by the friends and companions lost to a costly yet only temporary victory.

Dean hummed in understanding and wouldn't have added anything, but Castiel picked up the conversation, leading it onto safer grounds. He told Dean about the lake of Drak'normir, situated in a territory they'd secured a long time ago, about its waters that were so clear you could see all the way to its bottom, no matter how deep it got. It had reminded him of the smaller, weedier lake he and his twin brother used to escape to as children, when the appeal of a sunny day was stronger than the fear of consequences for having skipped their lessons—the extra studying and the cold wrath of their mother weighing down on them for weeks.

Dean remembered a lake too, a perfectly round expanse of water that he'd found once in the middle of fall as he was traveling on his own between two hunts. He remembered how quiet, how peaceful the place had been, how he'd stopped for the night in the abandoned cabin leaning against a bunch of poplar trees, how the following morning he'd wanted nothing more than to stop there for a while, forever, to go out to the bank and sit down there, wait and see what he might catch that day, or the following day, or the day after that.

He'd left, though, because that was what his father had taught him to do, had expected him to do: never let yourself be tied down to or by a place, always think of nothing but the next hunt.

He'd tried, later, when things had been calmer, when he'd had a bit of time for himself, to find that lake again. He'd never succeeded.

Night started falling before they reached the end of the second valley and they decided to stop early and find shelter. The evening was quiet, with a chill in the air brought by the altitude. They rested well, and were ready to go again at the first grey hint of dawn.

On and up they went that day, and the following day, and the day after that. They strode along valleys and up high slopes that left them winded, among willows and alders and across icy rivers that made their bared feet freeze, over windy passes and through large expanses of rubble that made them stumble. The birches, rowans and hazel trees grew fewer, replaced by pine trees and grass mixed with rhododendrons, junipers and cereals bending in the breeze. Still they kept on. They reached the first patches of old snow that never quite melted and soon after left the timberline behind entirely. After that there was only grass left, most flowers having retired for the winter, apart from a couple valiant asters, gentians or thistles stubbornly clinging to a crack between two stones.

On the fifth day, the slanting light of mid-morning found them walking along a pass, then climbing onto the following ridge until the path diverged from it, leaving the towering rocks to their right. Castiel and Grace took the lead as they meandered around large boulders, small patches of grass and more perilous stretches covered in loose stones. The white mare easily found her way through the rubble, her steps agile and sure, a stark contrast to Impala's much slower and clumsier progress. She kept snorting reproachfully at Dean every time a stone gave way under one of her large hooves and went tumbling, making her stumble. More than once she tugged on her bridle in a suggestion for them to go back and find another way. Unfortunately there was no other path they could choose, so the hunter only soothed her apologetically and patiently coaxed her forward.

He was aware that such uneven grounds weren't her forte. She was a bit too massive, and clearly peeved at seeing Grace hopping from rock to rock as smoothly as a wild goat. No, her land of choice would be wide plains where she would be free to gallop, crossing hundreds of miles in a matter of days. She was tough and sturdy, enduring, would carry a heavy burden without protest, could even bear the weight of two grown men and their equipment. More than once she'd carried both Sam and Dean when a hunt had left them too injured to walk. She wouldn't be the fastest in a short sprint, or the most nimble on a tricky track, but she was everything a hunter needed and trusted Dean enough to go on instead of stopping or rearing in fear.

Towards the middle of the afternoon they reached a plateau and climbed onto the saddle to cross it, finally able to move more quickly again. The grass was short and dry, interspersed by gnarled bushes whose needles were almost black. A chilly wind made their branches shake and snap while the pale veil that had been covering the sky thickened into a grey sea of clouds. Prey birds let their cries echo from the summits but remained out of sight. In the fading light the mountains felt as desolate as they were sometimes called.

The grass steadily grew sparser, leaving the earth and rock bare. In a small depression they found a patch of snow and behind it a hollow surmounted by a rocky overhang, large enough to shelter them during the night, and decided to camp there.

"I wonder how long it'll be until we attack Mount Neumandoor itself," Dean said when he came back from scouting the surroundings, empty handed after a fruitless hunt.

"It won't be long, I wager," Castiel replied. "Although I do wonder how the path is going to bring us up there," he added, looking up at the snowy peak occulting the stars. It was clearly higher than the summits surrounding it, and the way on which they were wouldn't allow them to reach that altitude if it went on like it had until now.

"Maybe the top isn't where we're headed," Dean suggested. After all, they were looking for someone. Even if she was a sorceress, she probably dwelled a little lower, where the mountain was slightly more habitable.

They got an answer to their speculations the following day, barely a couple of hours after they'd set off again. The clouds hadn't dissipated during the night and a light snow had started falling. Dean and Castiel had stopped feeling the cool humidity of the air, though, for the slope had grown a lot steeper. The earth underneath their feet had gradually disappeared to reveal the pure rock constituting the core of the massif itself. They'd moved forward, upward, now only guessing at where the path lay in between white curls of mist and clouds, until at a turn of the relief they'd seen it again.

It was clearly leading them to a ridge rising between two precipices, running along it until it reached a huge wall of stone where it kept climbing, a precarious trail carved directly into the rock. Upon seeing that both travelers stopped in dismay, Dean feeling a slight vertigo knot his throat and make his stomach turn.

"The horses won't be able to follow that path," Castiel murmured after a while. "We have to-"

He didn't finish his sentence but Dean knew at once what he meant. His first reflex was a denial, but he knew that the knight was right. The path was too narrow, too tortuous, the risk of them stumbling and falling down too great. Maybe Grace would be able to cross the ridge, but not even she would manage to go on on the narrow way they barely guessed at in the dim light.

"We have to send them back," he said, heart sinking.

Castiel watched worriedly as the hunter turned around with a low curse and slung an arm around Impala's neck. She pressed her head close to his and her ears twitched in his direction when he started to talk softly, a mixture or endearments, reassurances and instructions. The knight gestured for his own mare to come closer and ran his hand down her nose. He narrowed his eyes at the packs bound to her saddle, containing many things they needed but that they wouldn't be able to take with them—not all of it. With a sigh, he began to sort through them.

After a while Dean followed his example, all along apologizing to Impala for forcing her to come all this way only to make her go back now. She shut him up by roughly bumping her snout against his shoulder.

They took their weapons and everything they could carry in a bag slung over their shoulders—mostly water and food—as well as the content of the pouches bound to their belt: herbs, money and some vials. They gave up on their blankets, deciding their coats would have to suffice, and on most of what Sam had packed for Dean. The hunter quickly made use of the writing equipment he found in there to scribble a note.

"Otherwise he'll freak, when he sees her coming back without a rider," he explained. After all, the last time that had happened had been because Dean hadn't been in any state to even try and climb into the saddle, even with Impala kneeling beside him and nudging him.

He rolled and bound the slip of paper, then placed it back with the ink and quills. Snow kept falling, small flakes flitting down and clinging to the fabric of their coats, the translucent crystals briefly standing out on dark blue and green before melting away.

Once they were done, Dean helped Impala turn around then patted her on the rear to signal that she should go. She threw him an unimpressed look before glancing at Grace, who had remained close to Castiel as he appeasingly caressed her neck. The white mare understood the message and stepped forward until she could take the lead. Impala followed. The hunter and the knight watched them go.

"They'll find their way home," Dean said, sounding like he meant to reassure Castiel but in reality trying to reassure himself.

"Isn't there a risk for them to get captured by bandits or thieves?"

A dark smirk curved Dean's lips. "I'd like to see them try."

When in a tight spot, Impala never hesitated to rear, kick and bite, a fact that had saved her and her rider more than once over the years.

After he'd made sure that the horses were on their way, the hunter turned back towards the narrow path he and Castiel were to take and took a long, fortifying breath. Impala was the right mount for him in more ways than one: any place on which she couldn't or would refuse to tread was a way Dean himself wouldn't like to take and avoid if possible. He swallowed with difficulty, made sure that his bag, bow and quiver were secure over his shoulders and took the first step, trying hard to ignore the gaping void opening on both sides, its depth masked by mist.

Castiel followed him, not too closely so that the hunter wouldn't feel pressured to go faster and tense even more, but not too far so as to be able to grab him in case he lost his balance, which he repeatedly nearly did. The ridge was jagged and littered with loose stones, the wind blowing in irregular, violent gusts. Dean flailed and swore, paused and clutched at protruding rocks with both hands to catch his breath with his eyes tightly shut, but kept going. By the time they were halfway he was babbling out a steady stream of curses while trying not to let the fact that Castiel had barely slipped twice and never made a sound get to him.

He was unspeakably relieved when he finally reached the stone wall and the smooth path carved into the stone. He leaned back against the rock and closed his eyes as Castiel joined him, letting out a long breath to let go of the tension against which he'd been fighting.

They allowed themselves a couple of minutes to drink and calm themselves but soon had to go on. It wouldn't be good to waste time while it was light and the cold meant they couldn't stay still for too long. The wind was getting stronger, howling its way through the ravine. It pinned them securely to the wall but slowed their progress, the sparse snow cutting at their cheeks. They narrowed their eyes, wrapped themselves tightly in their coats and walked.

Soon it felt like they'd been clambering for hours. The path sometimes became so abrupt it felt more like stairs, and they often had to aid themselves with their hands. Struggling, bent against the wind, they had no idea how much ground they'd covered, how much they still had to cover before they'd leave this portion of the way behind. Dean started pausing more and more to squint at the clouds engulfing the path in front of them, trying to see if there was any end in sight—and to wait for Castiel who had slowed down, sinking into a deep silence, briefly stopping every time a gust of wind shook him and slithered its icy way through the folds of his cloak.

"You okay?" Dean finally asked, shouting to be heard.

"It's not of import, we have to go on," the knight retorted, but the wind snatched his words and carried them away before they could reach the hunter. Seeing him pause again, Castiel frowned and gestured angrily for him to keep walking. The wind plunged right through the opening the movement freed, making him shudder, but he clenched his teeth and resolutely pushed forward.

They had other things to worry about than Castiel's apparent exertion: the light, which had been dim to begin with, was starting to decrease, the clouds taking on that faint blue hue that preceded twilight. Hand pressed against the wall to his left for guidance, Dean tried to calm the anxious beating of his heart and kept moving, mind warring between the fear that the night would surprise them on that ledge and the stubborn hope that they'd see its end before it happened.

The rock suddenly disappeared from under his hand. He stumbled and for half a second was seized by the gut-wrenching terror of the fall. But his flailing hand found a grip and he wrenched himself back. He pressed himself against the wall for a second, squeezing his eyes shut and slowly letting his breath out as he listened to the couple of stones he'd dislodged tumbling down and down and down.

He _hated_ heights.

Once his panic had receded he peeled himself off the wall to search for the hollow that had surprised him. It was actually a long crack in the rock, he found out, barely large enough to let a man through. Its bottom half had visibly been worked on to ease the way, probably by the same tools as the ones that had carved the path, and Dean felt his heart leap at the thought that this might be a refuge. He stuck his head through the opening. The light was low, but he could make out a small space with a sandy ground and walls covered in asperities. Satisfied with that first glance, he squeezed his way inside. He regretted not taking his bow and quiver off his shoulder when they snagged against the rock, but they freed themselves just as suddenly, allowing him through and barely dislodging a couple of stones that bounced off the ledge and toppled down into the abyss.

The sound made Castiel look up from his cloak, which he'd been trying to tighten around himself while he regained his breath. When he saw nothing but an empty path in front of him, meandering then melting into the clouds, he felt dread flow through his insides and freeze there as if touched by the cold that had been plaguing him for hours.

"Dean?" he called. The howl of the wind was his only answer. He strode as fast as he could toward the last spot where he'd seen the hunter, looked around, didn't dare look down. "Dean!"

He startled when a hand fell on his shoulder and whirled around, momentarily forgetting how precarious the place he was standing on was. Fortunately the hand, briefly dislodged, snatched him right back before he could topple backwards. He sighed in relief when he met Dean's eyes, noticed the crack through which the hunter had reached for him and followed the man inside.

The hollow they found themselves in was small and dark, its curved walls preventing them from standing to their full height. But it was a refuge and didn't let the wind in. After hours spent in between icy gusts, the still air felt cool instead of cold. As Dean put down his bow, quiver and bag and started rummaging through the latter after having taken off his gloves, Castiel felt his muscles release the tension they'd accumulated in a bid to ward off the cold. He started to shiver violently, the spasms as uncontrolled as the sudden chattering of his teeth.

Dean looked up from his search. "You okay?"

Castiel tried to answer, couldn't, settled for a glare. It didn't deter the hunter, who stood up and went to clasp his arms, intent on rubbing some heat into them. He hissed when his palms came into contact with the burning iciness of Castiel's hauberk, and snatched his hands away with a curse.

"What the hell, Cas?" he barked. "You've been wandering around with that the whole time?"

Castiel's glare only intensified, as the answer was obvious. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh my God, _nobles_ ," he muttered. "Did you even think before dressing yourself?"

"I am aware that this might not be the most appropriate attire for traveling under such conditions," Castiel managed to reply, clenching his teeth. "However, you'll excuse me for not foreseeing that we would need to climb so high and spend more than a day in the blizzard."

"You _always_ expect the worse and plan according to it," Dean exclaimed. "That's like, rule number one of traveling. And when is metal a 'proper attire', anyways? Seriously, it's heavy, high maintenance and plain not practical. And it won't do anything more than good old, thick leather."

"Leather isn't much good against a well-aimed and sharp sword," Castiel pointed out.

"Right, because we're surrounded by enemies with pointy sticks right now," Dean grumbled. "You know, I'd say that in a fight, if you suck enough to let a sword so close it'll be a real danger then you _deserve_ to feel the pain." He tugged at the string holding Castiel's cloak around his shoulders. "Take it off, you idiot."

"This is getting inappropriate," the knight protested when his coat fell to the ground and Dean attacked the belt to which his sword was attached.

But even he could admit that keeping his hauberk on wouldn't be a good idea, at least not during the night. He started unlacing his tunic when Dean stepped back, belt in hand.

"Oh, don't get all prude on me now," the hunter scoffed. "Like _you_ weren't checking me out the other day."

Castiel felt himself flush, and took advantage of the fact that he was about to pull his tunic and hauberk over his head to hide his face. Dean had noticed, though, and the smirk was audible in his voice when he added:

"Yeah, I noticed. And it's not like I blame you."

"As I recall, _you_ undressed of your own volition," Castiel snarked, but the effect was ruined by his teeth chattering again, as he was now left in nothing but his undershirt.

"Clearly I'm the smarter of us two, then. Not only am I not freezing but I also stink less. Now shut up and put that on."

Castiel snatched the shirt Dean threw at him before it hit him in the face. The fabric was coarse but also thick and promised to be warm. The knight passed it over his head without a word, rubbed at his arms and bent down to untangle his tunic from his hauberk in order to put the former back on.

"You're lucky Sam's the worst mother hen ever," Dean said, watching him in the bleak light that still filtered through the opening in the rock. He was now sitting on the ground, arms propped on his bent knees. "One would think that, having a mom, you'd know how to pack your own bags."

"Our mother was more in favor of withstanding any kind of physical discomfort in order to strengthen the body and the mind," Castiel replied as he painstakingly laced his tunic closed with his numb fingers and snatched his cloak to throw it around his shoulders. He closed his eyes at the warmth enveloping him again and sighed in contentment, knowing the feeling wouldn't last.

His last retort had taken Dean aback. The hunter took a couple of seconds before he said: "Not to insult your mother or anything, but you nobles are crazy."

Castiel didn't answer. He knew that Naomi of Novak and her strict discipline were of a peculiar kind. But at the same time it was thanks to her and to that discipline that they still had lands to govern. Their father, Charles, hadn't been the most gifted or strong-willed of rulers, far from it. Without his wife's iron fist tightening the countless loose ends he left behind in every single aspect of his life, they would've lost everything, to a rival lord if not through a revolt of the people or by royal edict. Naomi hadn't been the best or most loving mother, but she was a good politician and somehow she'd managed to instill her shrewdness into her successor without James turning into the cold, sometimes exceedingly practical person she was.

"I'm so starting to get where all this is coming from," Dean muttered, but didn't expand on what he meant. At Castiel's sharp glance, he only chuckled.

They ate some of their dwindling provisions and laid down to sleep shorty after, because there wasn't much else they could do, especially not once the last of the light had withered away. Dean insisted for them to rest side by side, sharing warmth, and Castiel's first protests were rapidly pushed aside by the chill he still felt deep in his bones. Besides, the cramped space available for them to lie down didn't leave them much choice. They awkwardly shuffled until they were close but not quite touching and closed their eyes.

They fell asleep to the whistling of the wind outside and to the steady sound of each other's heartbeat.

 

*

 

The wind had died down when they woke up the following morning, Dean half on top of Castiel as he had rolled over in his sleep and found the knight to be a comfortable pillow. Still drowsy, he turned onto his back and stood up. After two attempts that ended up with him knocking his elbows against the rock he gave up on stretching, shook his coat and took a couple of biscuits out of his bag to serve as a breakfast.

While he was thus occupied Castiel had difficultly sat up and was rubbing at his face and temples. His sleep had been a dotted line, constantly interrupted by shivers, and when last he'd startled awake when Dean had slung an arm around him with a mumble, he hadn't had the will to push the other man off. Even then, he hadn't been able to warm up and fall into the deep sleep he'd needed. Now he felt as worn as one would after a night-long watch, but with the perspective of another day of travel in the cold instead of the comfort of his pillows and blankets to sink under for a couple of hours. He drank some water to try and ward off the headache already tugging at his brow and eyes before readying himself to go back outside. Following Dean's advice, he didn't put his hauberk back on, but kept it in his bag for when they'd be back in milder climates.

Everything was quiet as they set off. The clouds had risen during the night and were now suspended to the dark peaks stretching up towards them. The depth of the ravine they were following was now in full view, as well as the steep slope of rubble rising on the other side of the torrent. Dean wisely looked away, sticking close to the wall. Castiel still felt too stunned by the lack of sleep to feel afraid.

They could also see the rest of the path. In the distance the wall took an abrupt turn, after which the ledge seemed to disappear. The mystery was solved once they were close enough: instead of continuing along the wall, the path turned into abrupt stairs they had to climb like a ladder.

As they did so, it started snowing again.

Dean was out of breath when he heaved himself over the last step, and he turned around to help Castiel up with a hand. The knight was properly exhausted, but didn't complain, breathing deeply as they looked around. The path was still here to follow.

They felt like they were near the top, couldn't see anymore summit looming over them, but mountainous grounds are known for hiding unexpected obstacles. They didn't voice their hopes and kept walking.

The snow was already beginning to hold, peppering the earth with white, gathering against small asperities. It thickened while the renewed wind started tearing the clouds from the sky to blow them against the mountain. More than once they briefly hid Dean from Castiel's view. The third time it happened, the knight had to call out for the hunter to wait. The falling flakes were starting to erase their footsteps. Dean waited for Castiel to catch up to him, let out a short breath and snatched his hand, thus canceling the risk of them losing each other.

With the knight so close it became obvious how much he was struggling to keep walking, stumbling more and more as his strengths declined. Soon enough Dean was supporting him more than guiding him, pausing often, encouraging him forward. The redoubled effort kept his body warm and active but even he could perceive how fast the temperature was falling while the wind grew stronger. At every step the layer of snow was thicker and he felt a twisting kind of despair when he realized that this weather wouldn't abate, only get worse.

Castiel wouldn't get through this. He wouldn't either.

The thought made him pause. Castiel didn't even react, only leaned more heavily against him, panting. Dean tightened the arm he had around his waist and glanced around, throat tight, trying to find a wall or a cluster of rocks nearby that they could use as shelter, if only partially. But there was nothing—nothing apart from the snow and clouds blurring the world into an empty white. The path had disappeared, as had their footsteps when he looked back. Not that it mattered: turning around to try and return to where they'd slept the night before, taking the steps in the other direction, would've been madness.

Castiel let out a soft, interrogative sound at their prolonged stasis. Dean turned back forward, ready to move on. That's when he saw it.

A shimmer, in front of them, bright and red like flames, close enough to be visible but still hazy, like it could go out at any moment. Dean stared at it stupidly for a couple of seconds, almost gasped when it briefly flickered in the wind, like a ghost against the pull of oblivion. He remembered where they were, who they were looking for, and thought that maybe, just maybe-

He secured his hold on Castiel, took a breath and pushed towards the light.

He lost track of how long he followed it. Every time he thought he'd gotten close he found he couldn't see it anymore, until it reappeared further away, taunting. Shapes had started to appear around them, shadows, clumps and spikes of ice, twisted like the pillars of salt in the old legends. Dean and Castiel stumbled forward, Castiel silent and Dean in a haze, like this was nothing but a dream. More than once he felt thoughts tug at him, trying to drag him back towards full wakefulness, to warn him with vague memories of will-o'-the-wisps and of all the illusions the mind could conjure up when the body failed. But the wind swept them away before they could take hold.

A wall of ice rose on their left, low at first then growing taller then looming. When the light disappeared one last time, abruptly snuffed out, Dean made out an opening—a doorway.

He staggered through it, carrying Castiel more than supporting him, and fell to his knees then onto his back as soon as they were inside, like the sudden lack of wind was all he'd needed to finally lose his balance and the last of his strength. He lay on the ground, staring at the ice stalactites hanging over him like spears, trying to catch his breath.

"Castiel?" he called weakly, for the knight hadn't moved. "Cas?"

The knight didn't answer. A sudden movement overhead caught Dean's attention and he glimpsed a face bending over him, surrounded by long red hair, bright as flames. He couldn't make out its features and tried to reach for his short sword, but his hands and arms felt like lead. A voice shushed him, soft and feminine.

"It's okay, Dean," it said, and in his half-delirium Dean briefly saw the face of his mother, her gentle smile and soft eyes. "You're safe. You can rest now. You can sleep."

Dean did.

 

*

 

Dean felt warm when he woke up and frowned in confusion at the walls of ice that came into sight once he'd opened his eyes. Everything came back to him in a rush and he sat up, looking for Castiel.

"You're awake," a voice said behind him when he found the knight lying beside him, still asleep, skin shining with sweat and breathing labored. "He has a fever," the voice went on when Dean put his palm onto his companion's forehead, his cheek, checking his temperature. "But it will break soon."

Castiel tilted his head towards Dean's palm with an incoherent mumble. As he quietened into a deeper sleep, Dean turned to see who had spoken.

It was a young woman, clad in a light white dress, red hair falling onto her shoulders. She was sitting in front of a fire that burned without wood and beckoned Dean to come closer. The hunter did so hesitantly, not reassured by the smile that touched her lips as she noticed.

"I guess I should thank you," he said slowly, watching her warily as he sat down. "For taking us in and all."

"It was my pleasure, Dean."

The hunter felt his eyebrows draw together but forced a smile. "So you're the sorceress, eh?"

Her dark brown eyes never leaving his, the woman shook her head. "I'm not a sorceress. I'm far more powerful than a sorceress. More powerful than anything you've ever met." Her smile widened when Dean shifted, unnerved. "Which is why I can help you."

"Really," Dean said. "How?"

"I know why you're here. I heard it." She tilted her head to the side, as if listening to a distant echo. "You're quite the talk around the world. Dean Winchester and Sir Castiel, attempting what even angels don't dare to."

Dean froze briefly. "Angels," he repeated.

"Leviathans can kill them, which is why they keep their distance."

The hunter couldn't help but let out a derisive snort. He knew from experience that it didn't take Leviathans to dissuade angels from helping. In fact, more often than not it looked like they couldn't care less about what happened on Earth, even when demons were involved. The most they ever did, if all the ceremonial surrounding knighting held any grain of truth, was too call upon noble sons and daughters to carry out great deeds in their names, giving them nothing but a blessing and the distant echo of their voice for support and reward. _And look where it leads them_ , Dean thought. _From endless, stupid wars to high fevers while they'e lost, helpless and alone in the ass-end of nowhere_.

Dean briefly wondered what it had been like for Castiel, what it was like, what he thought of the angel that had ripped him from his family by giving him its name.

"Disappointed in Heaven, were you?" the woman said, her voice understanding. "I was too. Which is why I left."

Her words made Dean pause. He understood what she was implying. "You're an angel too?"

"A fallen one," she confirmed.

Dean felt his heartbeat pick up. "And you'd help us? Just like that?"

She pursed her lips. "As you know, everything has a price, Dean. There's something of yours that I need."

She pointedly looked down at his chest and for a second, with a shot of dread, Dean thought she was talking about his heart, his soul—until he realized she was staring right at his amulet, which was hanging outside of his tunic, contrary to how he usually wore it, hidden underneath several layers of clothes.

"That old thing?" he asked, hand belying his nonchalant words by protectively closing around it.

The woman smiled again, not fooled for a second. "It's quite powerful for a charm that clumsily made," she said, and Dean frowned. It had been the first charm Sam had ever made, and he'd made it for Dean, eight-year-old hands painstakingly carving the stone with none of the finesse they'd grow into. It didn't make it any less precious. "Did you ever wonder why?" She let out an amused huff before Dean could think of an answer. "Of course not. That's how humans are, isn't it? Never questioning good fortune, only the bad." She shook her head. "Most of its power stems from its material, not from what your brother did to it. It has part of the divine in it." She paused, eyes riveted to the pendent. "I can use it to find my father."

"Your father," Dean repeated, dumbfounded.

Her smile came back, a perfect curve with none of the meaning such an expression usually had on a human face. "I have questions to ask him. He might feel compelled to answer them if I am right in front of Him."

She looked Dean right in the eye, silently asking what his decision would be. The hunter felt his hand tighten around the amulet and swallowed. He'd had it around his neck for over twenty years, had prized it for the heartfelt gift it was, had carried it with him, in him, like a small piece of his brother, a token of his affection and care that never left him.

If he let it go...

"If I give it to you now," he started, and had to clear his throat. "Is there any chance I'll ever get it back?"

He hated how his voice wavered.

The woman blinked at him. "You misunderstand me," she said. "I'm not asking you to part with it." At Dean's raised eyebrows she explained: "You could stay. With me. We'd look for God together. Who knows, maybe He could help you against the Leviathans. They are His creatures too, after all." She leaned towards him and put a hand on his arm. "Think about it. We would see the world. You wouldn't even be parted from the ones you love, not really. I'd bring you to your brother every time you wanted in the blink of an eye. We could go anywhere we wanted, whenever we wanted. We could be anything, everything." She searched his eyes, looking for something. But she didn't seem to find it and straightened up, her quiet demeanor returning like it had never slipped. "But if you decide to part with it, then no," she said. "You won't be getting it back. Not in this lifetime."

Dean bit his lips. "How long would it take, to find God?"

"I don't know." Her smile quirked a bit wider, almost wry. "It depends on if he wants to be found."

Dean nodded slowly and glanced towards Castiel, who had turned to his side under the warm fur covering him. He'd sunk into a deeper, quieter sleep. The hunter knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that no matter what he decided, the knight wouldn't consider himself satisfied, would continue their quest on his own. As tempting as the potential help of a supreme being might be, it would come down to nothing if they couldn't obtain it. Castiel wouldn't chance it, especially not since they had a concrete lead. And Dean...

Dean wasn't really the type to put his faith into deities. Oh, he believed that God existed, sure; he just didn't believe _in_ Him. For as far as he could remember he'd been living with the conviction that God had washed His hands of the world a long time ago. That opinion wasn't about to change.

God wouldn't be easy to find; no, he wouldn't _want_ to be found. It'd take time to track him down, if it was even possible. Far more time than they could afford.

Dean squeezed the amulet in his hand, squeezed his eyes shut. He shook his head.

"Nah," he said. "I'll- I'll give it to you. But I won't stay." He thrusted his head towards Castiel. "I can't leave this guy alone. I mean, look at him. He can't even climb a mountain without making himself sick and fainting. Nobles, I swear."

He barely managed a weak smile to go with his words. Without waiting for the woman's reaction he took off the amulet. He paused for a couple of seconds, staring at it. It looked so small in the middle of his palm, old and worn, its weight barely perceptible. And yet it was charged with memories, with everything that he'd attached to it over the years.

He curled his fingers around it one last time. Then he took a breath and reached it out to the fallen angel.

The woman looked at it, at him, looked at Castiel. "I see," she said, her face expressionless, her tone impossible to interpret one way or another. She plucked the amulet from Dean's hand and held it in her palm, simply looking at it. After a while she closed her hand around it and stood up.

"You should go back to sleep," she said. "You still have a long way to go."

Before Dean could ask about her part of the bargain, she'd disappeared down the corridor opening at the back of the cavern, leaving him alone beside the fire, rubbing at his neck, feeling strangely vulnerable without the thin braided lace and pendent reminding him of his brother's support.

 

*

 

The snow storm had blown over when they woke up the following morning. Dean didn't remember falling asleep, but he felt well-rested, and Castiel was entirely recovered. Light streamed through the opening of the cavern, tinting its ice walls a vibrant blue and lighting up the stalactites like chandeliers. There was no trace of their hostess, nor of the fire that had burned so bright the night before. In its place they found their weapons and packed bags placed in a neat row beside a meal worthy of a king and a small vial filled with what was undoubtedly blood.

Castiel picked it up to inspect it and, after they'd both sat down to eat, Dean told him about what had happened. Or at least, he tried to. In the clear morning light the events of the previous day had melted into a dark blur, the words that had been exchanged muffled like they belonged to a distant past. The hunter could remember vague details, like the woman's red hair and her unchanging, unnerving smile; but no other features came to mind. He knew that the blood in the vial was hers and was what they needed, but he didn't remember its price until he patted his chest in a unconscious gesture and found his talisman missing.

Beyond that there was nothing, apart from a faint echo urging them to keep following the path on which they'd been.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean's hesitant report, not liking how the sorceress had obviously meddled with the hunter's mind. But tempted as he was to go look for her and demand an explanation, he couldn't. There was no sign of her in the cavern, and no visible corridor that would lead further into the mountain.

They decided not to linger. They left the emptied plates in a pile back where they'd found them, put on their respective coat and cloak and picked up the rest of their attire before they stepped out.

The mountain was covered in a smooth blanket of snow shining so bright they had to close their eyes and raise their hands to block out the sun. The sky was free of clouds, its azure pure and deep, and the air felt brisk with cold on their cheeks. A path was indeed visible, a meandering depression in the snow stretching towards the northeast until it dipped around a curve and disappeared. Castiel checked that the vial of blood was safely tucked into one of his pouches, tugged on his gloves one last time and nodded at Dean to signify he was ready.

They departed, feet scrunching at every step as they sunk into the white layer covering the ground. It stuck to their soles and to the bottom of their outer garments, made them slip more than once and slowed them down. But the day was beautiful, the rising sun warm on their skin and uplifting. They didn't mind. They trudged on.

Soon the wall of ice had disappeared from sight. They clambered over and around a series of small mounds then started going down in earnest, the path zig-zagging so as not to be too steep.

The snow disappeared before they reached the end of that long slope, at first thinning out then stopping abruptly, as if a line had been drawn onto the ground to forbid it to fall any lower. After that their progress was faster, especially once Dean started trotting, laughing merrily when they reached a spot covered in loose stones and pebbles that started sliding down and took his feet then him with them. He bowed his legs and stretched out his arms to keep his balance and started to experiment to see how he could exploit these small slides and how far he could go in just one step, all along glancing back at his companion, as if daring him to do better.

Castiel, who was all too aware of the potential dangers of setting off a landslide, frowned disapprovingly. Yet he couldn't help but do nearly the same, as the stones refused to remain still no matter how carefully he set down his feet.

He was relieved when they reached the bottom of the slope and with it a wide expanse of firmer flat grounds. Looking around at the valley in which they now were, they recognized the characteristic U-shape of a glacial through. Thick grass grew all around them, still green despite the late time of the year, and the path cut right through it, a band of pale earth stretching on and on. They followed it for a while at a measured pace, recovering their breath and taking the time to enjoy their surroundings—until the way unexpectedly veered to the right.

When they looked over they saw it slip into a narrow passage opened in the mountain, where the earth and rock parted all the way up as if they'd been cracked by a bolt of lightning. Barely four feet wide at first, the fissure widened as it rapidly went down, the small escarpment on each side soon turning into cliffs framing the way and throwing the place into shadows. A faint mist rose from the ground, the sun not reaching far down enough to have dispelled the morning dew yet.

The air turned cool and humid when they entered the ravine, making them adjust their cloak and coat around them. Even though the valley had been quiet, it still felt like a hush fell over them and around them at once. Their steps sounded muffled and their breathing grew silent.

They thought the mist would break off as the day wore on, but soon discovered that it wasn't going to be the case. On the contrary, even though the gorge kept widening it seemed to thicken, bearing down on them and making it harder to breathe. It surrounded them from all sides, hiding the sky behind a pale veil that prevented them from knowing how long they'd been walking.

They reached the first trees. They were tall and dark, pine trees briefly looming like shadows through the fog before disappearing. Their branches curved absolutely still, without a breath of air to make them move. Everything was so quiet it felt otherworldly. The walls of the ravine had vanished and with it, it seemed, the whole massif, the path they were on leading right into a vast forest spreading on an endless incline that shouldn't have been here.

The travelers exchanged a glance, silently wondering where they'd ended up, but neither of them had an answer. They went on.

The trees grew closer and taller, some of them burnt and black, others dead and broken. The few that looked still alive were withered, spraying the ground with dark needles that soon swallowed any leftover trace of the trail. It felt like the Elder Forest all over again but for the mist shrouding everything in a permanent, suspended twilight and sucking away all color, all sound.

Which made the crack of a branch breaking all the clearer, all the louder.

Castiel and Dean stopped walking at once, on their guard, instinctively turning their back to each other as they scanned their surroundings. The hunter took his bow off his shoulder, hand ready to snatch an arrow, while the knight wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword. Their legs bent in preparation for jumping or running. A growl rumbled, low and long.

"Do you hear that?" Castiel asked, voice almost inaudible.

Dean frowned. "Sounds like a-"

He didn't get to finish, as he suddenly caught sight of their enemy dashing through the trees, headed right at them. With a curse he grabbed the knight by the shoulder and pulled him with him as he threw himself to the side and rolled onto the ground. The monster—black, fast, huge—grunted when it missed them, landed on the ground and whirled around. Dean, used to the unexpected, had already drawn his bow, lying on his back. He let the arrow fly when the beast snapped its teeth in their direction and the projectile lodged itself down its throat.

The monster let out a short wail and collapsed, choking on its own blood. Without letting it out of his sight, Dean scrambled to his feet. He heard the knight do the same behind him and draw his sword, followed by the sound of it whipping through the air as a roar tore through the silence and another beast attacked. Trusting that his companion would hold his own, the hunter stepped towards the first monster, which was still trying to get back up, growling, bleeding, rolling enraged eyes towards him. As soon as he had a clear shot he took it, sending another arrow between the monster's ribs, right where its heart should be. The growl turned into a yelp then a whimper, and the beast fell back down. It didn't move again.

Several feet away Castiel sidestepped another swipe of his opponent's long claws and slashed it through the throat. When the monster reacted by rearing up on its hind legs, the knight threw his weight forward as he buried his sword right into its chest, cutting off its cry. It was dead before he drew the blade out and let it fall to the ground.

In the following seconds both travelers breathed and checked with several glances that the other was okay. While Castiel watched out for any other monster that might attack, Dean stepped towards his opponent, made sure that it was dead and proceeded to tug his arrows free, inspecting their silver head to see if they were in any way damaged.

"What are they?" the knight finally asked, frowning down at the monster he'd killed. At first glance they looked like huge wolves, but their hind legs were long and strong enough to allow them to stand up and their upper body was developed in a way that eerily reminded one of a human shape. The front of their chests was almost hairless, the skin stretching smooth and black on voluminous muscles. Their claws were long and curved, like their teeth, and their eyes were covered by a thin reddish film that hid their pupils and made them look furious even in death.

Castiel wasn't versed in monsters, but he knew enough to guess these weren't werewolves.

"I don't know," Dean replied, summarily wiping the one arrow he could save on the sleeve of his coat and slipping it back into his quiver. "I've never seen anything like it before. If I didn't know any better I'd say they look like-"

He abruptly stopped and frowned.

"What is it?" Castiel asked, eyes warily narrowed at the fog, trying to pierce through its blurry paleness.

"There was this hunter, years ago," Dean said slowly. "Gordon Walker. He traveled a lot, he used to say he'd been everywhere, had even hunted far down the southern coast of the Black Sea. He told the wildest tales, about things you couldn't imagine." The hunter pinched his mouth, still skeptical about most of these stories. "I always thought he was talking out of his ass—mostly because he sucked, as a hunter. He might've been able to kill some sons of bitches but he did it all wrong, and for all the wrong reasons. Bit him in the ass, too." He shook his head, then shrugged. "But anyways, he used to describe some seriously ugly monsters he said he'd seen and fought. And those here?" With the tip of his boot he nudged at the beast he'd slain. "Looks exactly like one of those. Gorilla-wolves, I think he called them. Real fugly—although not as hard to kill as he claimed they were." He paused and his frown deepened. "But they're supposed to be extinct. He always bragged he'd been part of the expedition that had killed the last specimens. And anyways, we shouldn't be finding these right here, in the middle of Moondoor. Unless..."

"Unless we're not in Moondoor anymore," Castiel finished for him, briefly meeting the hunter's gaze and unconsciously stepping closer. As improbable as it sounded, it would explain many things, including the strange feeling that had been slowly sliding up their spine, making their shoulders tighten—a faint feeling of wrongness, of being out of place.

"You're joking," Dean protested, feebly.

"How would they be here, if this wasn't the place where they went after death?"

"So what, we're in Purgatory? Just like that?" Dean snorted. "Like there's a freaking road leading right into it, and we didn't have to do anything, to _give_ anything to enter it? You just take the path, and anyone can go in and out?"

"The path was shown to us by a sorceress. No, by a fallen angel, who was aware of the aim of our quest," Castiel pointed out.

"And?"

"And it probably means that not anyone can find it, or at least not on their own. Besides, I'm almost entirely convinced we wouldn't find said path again, or the mountain we've left, were we to turn around and search for it."

Before Dean could find an answer, another crack sounded, then another, soon followed by the faint rustle of feet treading on the forest ground.

"Crap," the hunter cursed, hand tightening around his bow. He looked up to meet Castiel's interrogative eyes. "There's something else Gordon said about these things. They hunt in troops."

A growl made itself heard, as if in confirmation.

"We have to run," Dean said, tugging on the knight's cloak. "Run!"

"Shouldn't we fight them?" Castiel asked, but followed anyways, sprinting in the direction opposite to the one from which their pursuers were coming.

"Fight ten of these things at once? Be my guest!" the hunter barked.

They ran, as fast as possible in spite of the obstacles. They had to jump over many a fallen branch or trunk blocking their way; trees and bushes kept unexpectedly rising up, hidden by the fog an instant and right in front of them the next, making them hesitate or stumble before they managed to run around it. They could feel their lungs and muscles starting to burn, but the eager cries of their pursuers spurred them on, close, always too close.

Dean was ahead, far more used to these kind of situations, far more practiced in the art of running for his life when it was obvious he was outmatched. He screeched to a halt, though, slightly slipping on pine needles, when he heard a victorious roar, followed by an all to human gasp and, a second later, the sound of metal hitting flesh. The wolf that had just attacked Castiel hopped back just as the hunter turned around. One of its front legs was wounded, refusing to support its weight, but still it snapped its teeth menacingly, hungrily. Dean drew his bow and shot an arrow at the second beast bouncing right behind, narrowing his eyes at how difficult it was to see clearly enough for his weapon to reach its aim. As the arrow hit the wolf, carried by years of practice and instinct more than precision, the hunter realized that the half-light wasn't simply due to the thick mist anymore: the day was fading.

The monster he'd been aiming for stumbled and fell. With a gracious and precise swing of his sword Castiel finished off his own opponent and crouched slightly, ready to take the assault of the third wolf rushing towards him. Dean prepared to join him but heard something on his left, catching sight of yet another member of the troop trying to corner them by attacking from another direction. It was clearly headed towards the hunter, but kept zig-zagging, disappearing behind trees and bushes, too fast for Dean to try and shoot him.

The hunter started running again, leading it away from the knight. Twigs and branches snatched on his clothes, as if conspiring to hold him back, but he pushed forward for as long as he could. Suddenly, beyond another fallen tree he found himself stumbling down an unexpected slope, a large depression in the ground. Instead of regaining his balance he willingly threw himself onto the ground.

It was right on time. The wolf pursuing him had jumped, and flew over him instead of barreling into him like it had planned. Dean only had the time to turn around and flip himself onto his back before the beast was on him. He managed to ward off its fangs by reflexively thrusting his bow forward like a shield. It worked for several seconds, until the creature caught the weapon between his teeth and bit down, crushing the wood and snapping it in two. Dean shouted in outrage and punched the thing in the face without thinking, one half of the bow still clasped in his hand. It grazed the wolf's cheek and threw it off long enough for Dean to roll away and scramble to his feet.

He threw the sad remains of his bow to the side as well as his now useless quiver and drew his short sword. When the wolf attacked again he was ready. It managed to get him on the left arm, but Dean retaliated by throwing his right hand out, plunging his blade into its stomach. With a jerk to the side, he freed his weapon and effectively gutted the creature.

He swiftly stepped away. The monster tried to follow, but could barely stand on its legs, life leaving it with the blood gushing from its wound.

The hunter could hear the rest of the battle still taking place further away, out of sight—growls and grunts, teeth snapping, a sword singing and ringing as it danced and met its aim, the sound of running steps. Dean started climbing back up the slope down which he'd tumbled to see what was happening, tried to indicate to the knight in which direction to run by calling: "Cas-"

He was cut off when something abruptly tugged on his coat, strangling him and making him topple backwards. He hit the ground with a gasp and, looking up, saw the wolf he'd thought he'd left to die clawing at the thick fabric, using the grip to pull him closer. Dean reached for the strings keeping the coat close around his shoulders but now cutting his respiration, found them tightened, impossible to undo. With a curse he brought his short sword up and cut cleanly through it. As soon as it gave he slipped his arms out of the sleeves and rolled away, unsheathing his sleeve silver knife and throwing it in the same movement. It hit the wolf right in the eye.

This time he'd definitely killed it. After having made sure it wouldn't move anymore, Dean took back his knife, then tugged his coat free and looked at it in dismay.

Another growl started behind him. He tensed.

He waited for the monster to come a bit closer before turning around and throwing the half-shredded garment at its face. It served as enough of a distraction for Dean to get a head start. He ran, but could feel the tiredness weighing down on his limbs and knew he wouldn't outrun the wolf for long. He tried, though, until the beast almost snatched his ankle, at which point he put his hand on the trunk of the nearest tree and used the grip to pull himself around it, changing directions so rapidly the monster rushed past it, carried by its own weight. In the time it took the beast to stop and get its bearing Dean came up behind it and jumped onto its back. He desperately clung to its fur as it tried to dislodge him, bouncing, throwing itself from side to side and rearing up, and managed to slip an arm around its throat. He tightened it, choking the creature while ensuring he wouldn't be thrown off, and with his other arm plunged his blade into its chest, once, twice, until the monster collapsed under their combined weight with a gurgle.

Dean wasn't able to loosen his hold at once and for a moment just stayed there, half sitting half lying, head bowed forward as he breathed. After a while he straightened up, grimacing at the stink of the body underneath him, and staggered off of it. As the adrenaline left him the pain in his limbs began to make itself known, making him hiss and put a hand on his arms where claws had left several gashes he hoped weren't too deep.

He looked around and noticed for the first time how quiet everything was. No matter in which direction he strained his ears he couldn't hear anything. No snarls, no steps, no fight. And in the dimming light that soon would disappear entirely, he realized he had no idea where he was, or where he'd come from. He had no idea where Castiel was, or where to look for him. His sharp sense of direction, which usually instinctively let him know where the four cardinal points lay and how to retrace his steps, was gone, confused, fumbling through the growing darkness and the fog without success.

"Castiel?" he called, an uncertain sound between a shout and a whisper. The fear of attracting any more monsters muffled his voice. "Cas?"

Only the silence answered.

Dean swallowed. He was in Purgatory. The night was upon him, and he was alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you wanna come say hi :)


	4. Down to Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for canon-typical violence.** As you can see from the chapter's title, we're in Purgatory, so expect monsters and people fighting them.

Dean hadn't slept a wink by the time dawn came four days later. Yet strangely he didn't feel it, didn't feel the gritty bleariness that usually came after such a long time spent awake. At first he'd thought it had to do with the adrenaline, with the necessity to always be on his guard, senses sharp. But he'd since realized it was more than that.

He felt weary for running and fighting almost constantly, but not sleepy, not hungry, not even thirsty. It was as if his body had stopped all functions beyond mobility and perception, and had gotten rid of all its needs in one fell swoop.

That was as unsettling as it was welcome. He'd lost his bag in one of the fights that had punctuated his vain attempts at finding the spot where he and Castiel had first been attacked. He had no more water, no food, not even the few medicinal supplies that he'd kept and that would've come in handy. The slashes on his arm had barely bled before they’d stopped, but they didn’t show any sign of healing and were burning faintly, as did a cut on his right cheek, while the countless faint bruises that had bloomed on his side and back throbbed dully.

Things had come at him, kept coming at him, by day and by night—several vampires, a wraith, shifted skin-walkers and other creatures he hadn't managed to identify but had by some miracle managed to kill. It always happened so rapidly, repeated lapses of time shrouded in a red foil of panic and instinct, that all these encounters were already starting to blur together. If things went on the way they had up until now, Dean knew the days would do the same soon too.

It meant he had to act fast, and find Castiel before time lost all meaning.

The mist had disappeared, but Dean was still astray and didn't know where the knight was. He hoped that he was okay. He refused to think that Castiel might not have survived that first night, might not even have seen it fall. Surely, the Queen's trusted Captain wouldn't have gone down that easily. Surely he was looking for Dean, as

Dean was looking for him—or he was trying to find an Alpha, to further their quest, and all Dean had to do was to catch up.

He found bodies, sometimes. Every time he felt dread spark at the pit of his stomach. It smoldered as he approached and went out when he checked and saw that it wasn't Castiel, leaving nothing but a thin wisp of relief. Dean even admitted to himself that that feeling had little to do with the single vial that they'd managed to fill up until now and that the knight was carrying. The Queen had been right: the quest they were on was deeply hazardous and Castiel was a skilled soldier whom Dean appreciated having by his side. Besides, the knight had turned out to be a far better companion than he'd thought. Someone Dean might get to—want to—call a friend one day, if they made it out alive.

So he kept checking the bodies, and tried not to let his hope rise every time he discovered the pale face of a stranger. The fact that these corpses were nothing but monsters didn't mean that the knight was still up and fighting in that godforsaken place. It didn't mean that there wasn't a body to find somewhere, or that there hadn't been one at one point or another, before it had been taken.

Dead bodies didn't last long in Purgatory, Dean had realized. The ghouls came out at night and took care of them. In their hunger they consumed everything, flesh and nerves and bones alike, and stole the clothes for themselves. He'd heard them once already, a whole herd shuffling through the trees and the darkness. They'd sounded so numerous that he'd judged it wiser to remain where he was, leaning against a tree, still, barely breathing. They'd probably heard him anyway, sensitive as they were to the slightest signs of life, but they'd passed him by without stopping.

He was alive. He was of no interest to them.

The forest had remained silent and quiet in their wake. The following morning Dean had found no trace of them, no trace of _anything_. Since then he'd tried not to think about what it meant—that if anything had happened to Castiel, Dean rapidly would have no way of knowing it.

Instead he made himself believe that Castiel was still alive. He had to be. And he kept looking, which was the only thing he could do, for himself, for the quest. Continuing it on his own was out of question: he would not only be back to square one, deprived of the sorceress’ blood and of any bargaining chip against her, but also alone, lost in Purgatory, without the faintest idea of how to proceed. Isolated as he was in these endless woods that were either completely empty or crawling with threats, he felt like he wouldn't be able to get out on his own, let alone face an Alpha that he didn't know how to find.

So he kept looking. But looking and not finding anything was tiring. No matter how little the absence of sleep affected him, he felt like he was fraying at the edges, a bit more with every passing day. As the light slithered back in grey and blue at the beginning of yet another morning, he stopped by a tree, putting a hand on its rough bark, lips thoughtfully pursed. Not for the first time he was considering leaving markers as he went, broken branches and gouges on trees. It'd help him map out the grounds and, if Castiel was looking and stumbled upon one, he might be able to follow them. But each time the hunter felt tempted, he remembered that the woods around him were infested with creatures far more sentient and clever than most beasts dwelling deep in the forests of the Earth. By leaving a trail behind him, he'd make himself an obvious target—as if the assaults he had to withstand weren't already enough. Plus, his attempts at orienting himself up until now had all been in vain. Too often his focus had been reduced to nothing by an attack, his way lost as he ran for his life. He was certain he'd been walking in circles but not once had he found a place that had looked familiar, just like the forest hadn't ever shown sign of thinning out or stopping. And yet-

His reflection was interrupted by a rustle. Far away, barely there, faint enough that it could've been provoked by the wind—if there had been any wind. As it was, the air was so still and silent that any sound stood out and betrayed a threat.

Dean made sure not to outwardly react, or even tighten his hold on the short sword he had kept in hand since he'd unsheathed it against the gorilla-wolves. He caressed the bark once more then patted it while stepping back, as if he hadn't found what he’d been looking for.

When the first vampire mistook this for an opening and jumped at him, Dean swiftly sidestepped. Caught unawares, the monster stumbled and straightened up right on time to present its neck to the hunter's descending blade.

Dean didn't wait for the body to follow the severed head onto the ground. He took off. As he ran he strained his ears and threw glances on both sides, counting. He was followed by at least three vampires, maybe four. Getting rid of them all on his own would be difficult, but not impossible. The question was how to prevent them from attacking at the same time.

He caught sight of several boulders slightly to his right, forming a loose circle, and veered in that direction at once. With a little bit of luck, it would slow some of the vampires down and, if cornered, he could use one of the large rocks to protect his back. He lengthened his stride in order to gain some distance and soon reached the stones.

He breathed in a brief second of relief, but just as he prepared to turn around another body threw itself inside the circle. It rolled, stood back up and froze when its eyes met Dean's, bright blue irises at odds with the faded hues of the forest. Dismay filled the hunter as he recognized the newcomer to be yet another vampire, although he was puzzled as to how it could've anticipated his move and caught up to him that fast. But then he heard the snarls—the characteristic cries of half-shifted werewolves getting close to their preys. He understood that this vampire wasn’t here to attack him, but found himself instead in the exact same situation as he.

Their eyes met again as Dean's own pursuers came close and some sort of understanding passed between them. They knew without the shadow of a doubt that they wouldn't hurt each other, at least not for now. Reassured, they both turned around to face their respective opponents.

Dean had counted correctly: he had four vampires on his tail. A challenge, but no condemnation. Dean knew vampires. Most of all he knew how they worked, how they thought, about themselves and about others. They had the advantage of speed and strength on many species, especially on humans, and wouldn't be stopped by most injuries. Only a beheading was radical enough to kill them. They knew it. They reveled in it. And therefore, they often grew complacent. They rarely learned how to fight, to strategize, considered that their ability to tear through someone's throat was enough. Against their favored victims, children and youths that hadn't yet grown into their adult bodies and strength, it might be. But it was no match against the skills of a fighter as experienced as Dean, who'd taken on more than one nest in the past, on his own or with only one other hunter as a backup.

Here in Purgatory the vampires were more ferocious, more edgy, desperate perhaps. It made no real difference. Dean slew one, then two. In the few seconds it took for the other two, who by now had grown more careful, to plan their attack, he glanced at the other fight taking place several feet away and noticed that his companion in misfortune was in a tight spot. Without thinking about it he threw his silver knife, which stuck itself into the back of the nearest werewolf, then went back to his own fight just in time to see both vampires rush at him.

Despite his fast reflexes, he didn't quite parry on time. His sword bit into the first one's neck at the wrong angle, the blow hard enough to cut the artery and kill it, but the blade caught on the backbone instead of slicing between two vertebras. When the vampire jerked in agony and fell, the already damaged metal broke cleanly in two.

Taking advantage of his surprise his last enemy slammed into him, propelling him onto the ground. It grabbed at him, snarling and snapping its fangs as Dean desperately tried to hold it at bay and to bend his legs enough to gain some leverage and throw it off.

In that second a whistle rang out, clear and high, catching both the hunter and his attacker’s attention. But it was to Dean that the blue-eyed vampire, who'd dispatched the last werewolf, threw a weapon. The hunter snatched it and, without taking the time to wonder about what had just happened, pushed off his dumbfounded assailant and swung his arm.

The head, cleanly cut, fell and bounced off beside him, its severed arteries spraying his face and side with blood while the body crumbled to the side. Dean winced in disgust and spit, then climbed back onto his feet. He looked up at the remaining vampire, wary and somewhat confused.

"What?" the creature asked. "No thanks for saving your hide?"

"Just wondering why you didn't save his," Dean retorted, tilting his head towards his latest victim.

"Well, I owed you one. Besides, that guy was a jackass. Vamps often are."

Dean gave a forced grin. "I've noticed. Clearly, you need to work on your hospitality." He didn't lower his new weapon—some sort of axe, he realized, roughly made but apparently efficient.

"Which is why I'm wondering why a human has come to visit. I'd heard the rumor, but I have to admit I didn't believe them. And yet, here you are. A hunter, no less." He smiled. "I'm Benny, by the way."

Dean huffed. "Okay, pal. I don't know what your game is. But let me do you a favor, since I owe you one too. If you leave now, I won't hunt you down and kill you."

The vampire raised his eyebrows, as if questioning Dean's ability to defeat him. The hunter didn't let that deter him. After all, the numerous bodies surrounding him spoke for themselves. Benny made no move to leave, though, his eyes calm but calculating. Dean tightened his hold on his makeshift axe, ready for all eventualities.

"No need to get all worked up, kid," the vampire said. "I'm not planning on drinking you. As you've probably noticed, it's not really necessary around here. Might be one of the rare perks of this dump, to be honest." He paused. "No, I'm just thinkin’. What could’ve brought you here, of all places?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, but the vampire just stood there, arms hanging at his sides, his own weapon held loosely in his right hand. His posture couldn't have been less threatening. But he was stocky, his reflexes undoubtedly quick. Dean knew he shouldn't underestimate him.

"I'm looking for something," he finally admitted, wondering if he could exploit the creature's curiosity. "You wouldn't happen to know where your daddy is, by any chance?"

The vampire smiled and even though his fangs were retracted it appeared unnervingly sharp. "You're looking for the Alpha."

Dean didn't confirm it but Benny didn't need him to.

"You're aware that most of the legends about their powers ain't true, right?"

Dean remained silent.

"Ah, not a chatty one, are you?"

Dean's stubborn muteness and threatening scowl seemed to amuse him, if anything.

"I'll lead you to him, if that's what you want," he offered.

Dean chuckled humorlessly. "You're aware this stinks trap all the way from here, right?"

"I would never," Benny retorted, bringing his right hand up to his chest.

"Oh yeah? And what tells me I won't end up like furry and fangy over there?"

"Well, for starters, they don't have your sense of conversation," Benny smirked. "And I'm quite curious to see the look on the old man's face when he sees you. Sure promises to be more entertaining than tearing throats all day long."

Dean refrained from rolling his eyes—he wasn't going to let the vampire out of his sight, not for a second. He knew that what he was being told was far from being the whole truth. Benny had something to gain from all this. He simply wasn't naming it just yet.

"I have a counter offer," the hunter said, testing the waters.

Benny raised his eyebrows. "Have you, now?"

"Let's call it a trial run, if you want. If you heard about me, then you probably heard I didn't come here alone." The vampire nodded slowly. "So first we find the knight. Then we'll see."

Benny smiled. "We have a deal."

 

*

 

The search took a while. Neither of them knew where to start, or where to go, and the frequent skirmishes with various monsters didn't help matters. Benny seemed unfazed by Dean's decision to preemptively fight and kill anything crossing their path. He even helped, humming or whistling as he wielded his weapon—a strange mix between an axe and a mace—like this was nothing but a nice stroll through his favorite gardens. The combination of his cold, sharp smile and of Dean's obvious skills quickly became obvious to their opponents and more than once the monsters hesitated before attacking. Dean noticed it and reckoned he could use it to his advantage.

He started offering them a deal: he'd let them escape unscathed if in exchange they gave him information on Castiel's whereabouts. Most of them didn't have any, or were too prideful not to be angered by the insinuation that they might want to run away like cowards. They rarely bothered to give him a verbal answer before rushing at him with a snarl. It was their mistake.

This was why Dean almost didn't believe it when, on the fifth day after the start of his and Benny’s partnership, a rugaru unexpectedly agreed to his terms. As soon as it had finished speaking it fled under Benny's narrowed eyes. The vampire watched until it had disappeared out of sight, far from convinced that it wouldn't try to sneak up on them later to catch them when their defenses were lowered. He'd made no secret of how ridiculous he'd found Dean's investigation method, or how foolish he considered the hunter’s insistence on keeping his word once he'd obtained what he needed. Dean didn't care about what he thought, though. Besides, it wasn’t like he had the means to burn that specific monster at his disposal, which would’ve been the only way to definitely get rid of it.

“Follow the river,” the rugaru had said, and told them how to reach it. Shortly before nightfall they did, and stopped as soon as the darkness surrounded them. The murmur of the water would cover any noise of approach, leaving them an easy target if they didn't find shelter. Fortunately they discovered a cluster of large trees whose protruding roots opened safe hollows where they could ensconce themselves as they kept watch.

They didn't talk and didn't sleep. Dean still didn't feel the need, the same way the clear running water didn't arouse any thirst. He stubbornly ignored the uneasy feeling it awoke in him and focused on the perks. After all, as helpful as Benny had been up until now, Dean didn't trust him enough to willingly slumber in his presence.

He shifted until he was as comfortable as he could be and prepared himself for a long, tense wait. His surprise was great, therefore, when he noticed the light creeping back in after what hadn't been nearly enough time for the night to pass.

"What the hell?" he muttered as he stood back up, looking around. It was unmistakeable.

He had noticed it already, how the days and nights seemed to vary in length. The first day of his cooperation with Benny had felt interminable, while the following one had seemed much shorter, almost cut off, deprived of its evening hours. Until now he'd put it down to his own skewed perceptions, rendered chaotic by his constant moving, by the repeated alternation between watchful rest and fight for survival. This time, though, it was too obvious for him not to comment on it out loud.

Benny shrugged. "I've been here some time and I have to admit, I still haven't wrapped my mind about the workings of this place." Yet after a while he added: “My favorite theory’s that the length of a day or night's got nothing to do with hours, but with the amount of poor bastards that have been killed. You reach the quota of deaths, and you're good for another nice night of not-sleep. Or, y'know. The opposite."

"So last night would've been, what?" Dean asked incredulously. "The War of the Four Kingdoms, round two?"

"That, or some folks decided to take a bloodbath. Maybe the amazons. They don't come out often, but man, when they do..."

He didn't finish his sentence, not that it was necessary. Dean had dealt with amazons before, on Earth. Given that Purgatory would only have rendered them more vicious, he was glad he hadn't crossed path with them up until now.

As soon as it was clear enough for them to see the ground and with it the stones and roots over which they would otherwise have stumbled, they set off. On their right the stream flowed smoothly, its merry song at odds with the darkness that stuck to everything like poison, with the tortured shape of the trees and the gashes in the rocks. It seemed to invite the traveler to bathe and rest, which only made Dean more reluctant to approach it. He knew what could lurk in the quiet of a peaceful lake, in the loops of a clear river. Erring on the side of caution, he kept his distances as much as possible. Benny wordlessly followed his lead.

They trudged along the river for a whole day, then two. When the third day dawned Dean had started to doubt the words of the rugaru, his uncertainty warring with anger at having been tricked so easily—and underneath it with a soft kind of despair. If he didn’t find Castiel, if he couldn’t rely on what he managed to get out of the monsters he interrogated, what was left for him to do? Up the stakes, take the offensive, trade with blood and pain instead of mercy? It would do nothing but turn him into one of _them_ , without any guarantee that he would gain better answers.

Behind him Benny wasn't saying a word, but his sardonic silence was telling.

Dean was ready to give up when they reached a clearing, a small circular beach covered in pebbles opening right below them. And there, right at the edge of the water, crouching, Dean recognized Castiel.

"Cas!" he called without a care for who or what might hear him. He started jumping down and sliding from rock to root, aiming for the riverbank.

The knight's first reaction was to snatch his sword, which had been lying beside him, and raise it as he stood up and whirled around. It took him several seconds to register who was walking towards him. His blade lowered and he stared.

"... Dean?"

Lips stretched into a wide, relieved smile, Dean impulsively drew him in for a brief hug as soon as he was close enough.

"Damn, it's good to see you," he said, squeezing the knight before he stepped back. Castiel hadn't reacted and was still looking at him, eyes full of disbelief. "What's with the peach fuzz?"

At that the other man briefly raised a hand to his cheeks, his fingers brushing over the coarse hair covering them, like he had forgotten about it. “It just stopped seeming so important, after a while. But how-"

The hunter cut him off with a huff. "Man, if I'd known all it took was a month journey and some monsters jumping you bright and early..." He shook his head. Since the beginning of their quest, Castiel had made a point of devoting several precious minutes to shaving with his knife before he packed up his things in the morning, much to Dean's irritated disdain, as the hunter easily went a couple of days or more before his stubble started to itch too much.

It wasn't just the messy beard that had caught the hunter's attention, though. As a whole the knight looked ragged and worn. A slight slump bent his shoulders, breaking the straight line he’d always displayed, just like the proud sharpness in his eyes had faded, replaced by a strange dimness, despondent and resigned. His hair was a mess, his face streaked with dust and dirt. He still had his cloak but it was torn, matted with mud and strewn with dead leaves. His tunic and shirt fared no better, grey and brown where they'd once been white, stuck to his torso by sweat and blood. He'd lost his bag, like Dean, as well as his gloves. Only his sword seemed unharmed, its blade as bright and dangerous as always, spotless for having just been dipped in the river and wiped.

The past days had been hard for Dean, but he hadn’t expected to find his companion in such a state, so frayed, nearly defeated. The knight wasn't wounded, though, apart from a couple of thin gashes near his ribs and from his busted knuckles. Dean couldn’t ask for more.

Castiel had tilted his head to the side. "Dean, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice nothing but wonder and incomprehension.

"Looking for you," Dean replied. "Or well, I was. Now I guess I'm looking for the Alpha vampire. This guy here'll lead us to him." He gestured at Benny with his axe without glancing back at him.

Castiel only gave the vampire a cursory glance before his eyes returned to the hunter. "It's just," he hesitated. "It's been so long. I thought..."

Dean frowned. "You thought what?" he asked slowly.

The knight didn't answer.

"That I wouldn't find you? After what, two weeks?" Dean finished for him, conveniently forgetting the doubts that had been plaguing his own mind less than an hour earlier. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Castiel narrowed his eyes in puzzlement. "Dean, it's been more than two weeks," he said.

“Give or take a few days," Dean retorted, rolling his eyes at the knight's uptight attention to detail.

"No, it's been far more than that," Castiel insisted in a murmur. "So much that I lost count."

"Now that's not possible."

They'd more or less forgotten about the vampire, who was silently watching them, eyes keen and intrigued. He knew what the humans' contradictory perceptions meant. Dean wasn't aware of it, couldn't have noticed it, but when Benny had become his guide, he'd done so in more ways than one. Finding your way through Purgatory didn't simply involve space, it also implied time. It had been lucky for Dean to meet Benny: taking him on as a companion had stabilized him in a way, had brought him closer to the creatures dwelling on this plane. Left to his own devices he would've drifted through its various dimensions and the days, as fickle as the moon, would’ve multiplied, stretched and shrunk and passed without him being able to keep track of them, to prevent them from melting into a grey eternity.

That was what had happened to the knight, who hadn't had the luxury of finding an anchor. He'd been determined at first, just like Dean had been. He'd looked for the hunter, looked for an Alpha, looked for a way out. He'd walked and fought and interrogated the monsters he'd come across.

It had all been in vain.

Days and nights had come and gone in a dance without beat, without any regular rhythm, twirling haphazardly between light and darkness, quiet and violence. Little by little, without him noticing before it was too late, his grasp on what he was trying to do, on why he was trying to do it, had weakened. His aim and will had slipped from his mind like the hilt of his sword was threatening to do from his numbed fingers. And after miles through a forest that never changed but never looked the same, after countless fights devoid of purpose, after one close call too many, he'd come to the realization that there was no edge to that forest. That there could be no victory to that constant war, no exit for him apart from the final end. That knowledge had spread through his innermost being, had shaken him to his core.

He was lost. He was alone—his angel out of reach, entirely silent since he'd left the earthen realm, entirely absent for the first time since his calling; and his only companion gone, dead maybe, hopefully escaped, in all cases nowhere to be found. He was stuck and he would not manage to get out. He would remain there, alone, among monsters, until he gave up, or his sword failed him.

With every day spent wandering through the trees, with every night spent in anxious wakefulness, he'd fallen closer to that last moment. Only now, suddenly, Dean was here, his presence and voice a beacon cutting through the fog in his mind. It felt unreal, it felt like a miracle for which Castiel had stopped hoping without remembering when—and it had been one, although Benny might be the only one to be entirely aware of the fact.

"And yet this is what happened," Castiel said in response to Dean's incredulity. "And I thought… I'd hoped that you, at least, had gotten out. That you had gone on."

"And what, left you here to rot?" Dean retorted, anger seizing him at the implication. "For who do you take me?"

The knight straightened and raised his voice in turn. "For an experienced warrior, who knows when to be practical. Looking for me, for so long, it's- it _was_ a luxury we couldn't afford. You should have gone on instead."

"Yeah, well, I didn't." Dean crossed his arms. "From where I'm standing, it looks like I made the right call."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Have you forgotten our mission? What we've come here to do, and why? Because it doesn't involve wasting time on wild-goose chases."

"So you're a chicken now? Only good for fodder?"

"My fate doesn't matter if it means I fall for the sake of the kingdom."

"One, you don't look fallen to me, just in serious need of a bath," Dean snarled. "And two, you're carrying our only vial of blood, you cretin!"

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, then paused. He'd forgotten about the small container he'd kept in his pouch since Mount Neumandoor. Reflexively putting a hand on the coarse fabric bound to his sword belt, he felt the smooth, thick glass through it, fortunately intact. "Oh."

"Yeah, now tell me about being practical," Dean snorted. "But hey, guess what? Even if you didn't have it, I would've looked for you."

"But our mission is-"

"Screw the mission!" Dean cut him off. "And screw the kingdom! I don't care how long it took. Hell, I wouldn't care if it had taken longer. Nobody gets left behind, you get that?"

That last sentence and the firm tone on which it had been said affected the knight more than either of them had expected. On the rare occasions on which Castiel had felt strong enough to let his mind linger on his dire situation, contemplate all possible scenarios, he'd clung to the hope that Dean hadn't ended up in the same predicament as he, or worse. He'd made himself believe that the hunter had plowed on, had found his way through and out of Purgatory, that he had found the blood and left that place—had left Castiel—behind.

As a soldier, he had understood what it meant, had accepted it, like he would've accepted it on the battlefield if he'd been too grievously injured, or if his sacrifice would've meant that the rest of the troops would've had time to retreat, to regroup, to attempt another maneuver. It was a fate all warriors accepted when they put on their armors, when they wrapped their hands around the hilt of their swords. They knew that they had no worth as individuals, that what mattered was the bigger picture.

But Dean was no warrior, no knight. He didn't work or think the same way. His service to the kingdom, his hunts, didn't evolve on the same scale. He didn't save lands but people, single lives that he touched and saw, every single one of them as invaluable to him as the other. He would never let the need of the many outweigh the need of the few. He would only ever do what he felt was right. His stubborn devotion to these principles revealed what appeared to Castiel as a simplistic naivety. But it also uncovered a generosity of heart that the knight had rarely encountered among his peers, and almost never directed at _him_.

He swallowed with some difficulty. His voice sounded raw when he spoke again: "Some would say that such a decision is less than strategic."

"Yeah, well, you know what I think of your strategies," Dean dismissed. "Besides, it's done. If you still aren't happy, just make sure not to get lost again."

Castiel pressed his lips together, uncertain about the fact that he'd been the one to go astray, but Dean's tone of voice had indicated that the discussion was closed. Benny took advantage of that interruption to remind them of his presence and cleared his throat.

"I hate to put an end to such a touching reunion," he said. "But something tells me we shouldn't linger."

He tilted his head to the left towards the forest. And indeed if they listened for it, they could hear the rustle of leaves, the snapping of branches. Something was coming closer and would soon notice their presence.

"Okay," Dean said. "Lead the way."

Ignoring the narrow-eyed look the knight was now directing at him, the vampire did.

 

*

 

Purgatory was a chaotic realm. Every single one of its souls was driven by an irrational, irresistible pull urging it to try and survive by any means necessary. Anyone was therefore as susceptible of allying themselves with you to fight against a superior opponent as they were of stabbing you in the back once that enemy was defeated. You couldn't trust anyone.

Things had changed a bit when the Leviathans had left and the Alphas had arrived, although no one remembered which one had happened first. A semblance of order had been brought, now that the threat of the Old Ones had stopped casting its shadow and rendering everyone so desperate. There were what could almost be called territories, areas where one race of monster preferred to gather and dwell, following their Alphas. Members of the same species tended to stick together more. Naturally, the souls that didn't belong to any family ended up at the bottom of the food chain. It didn't prevent frictions, but it was something.

This all Benny explained to Dean and Castiel as he led them towards the territory on which the vampires were slowly securing their hold. He was, as it turned out, quite the storyteller, and enjoyed filling the silence in between confrontations with other monsters with random facts and hearsay. Dean didn't mind. Any information about this place was an asset in his eyes, no matter where it came from. He asked questions and Benny answered with a wry wit that very nearly made the hunter smile and forget who he was talking to.

Castiel hadn't that problem, as he had just met the vampire and was far more circumspect. Since he'd been reunited with the hunter and been reminded of their goal, his mind and eyes had slowly recovered some of their keenness and turned to their guide. He listened and observed without saying a word, full of the distrust that the days passing by had weakened in Dean. To him the vampire's constant babbling was nothing but a poorly disguised distraction.

"Should we really be trusting him?" he finally asked in a murmur, several days after they'd left the river. They still hadn't reached their goal, didn't seem any closer to it, and the forest around them looked exactly the same.

"It's not like we have a choice," Dean snorted in reply, not bothering to lower his voice since he knew that Benny would hear them anyways, even though he was walking several feet ahead. "And he's delivered on all he's committed to up until now."

Castiel wasn't assuaged so easily. "Oh? And where, pray tell, is the Alpha, then?"

"Right this way," Benny replied without a backward glance. He'd stopped at the top of a small hill. When the hunter and the knight joined him he pointed down with his weapon. The undergrowth didn't look any different, was maybe a bit misty; but they could see a group of vampires sitting on a cluster stones and tree trunks not too far away. They seemed to be resting, but all looked up in the newcomers' direction as soon as Benny started leading them down the slope, as watchful as guard dogs.

Considering the fact that they hadn't come across anyone since that very morning, Dean and Castiel realized they'd made their way into the vampires' territory. Those who were sitting, having noticed Benny, didn't move to stand. But they remained focused on the travelers as they approached and passed, following them with cold, dead eyes which both Dean and Castiel kept feeling on their backs long after they'd walked away.

The hunter's shoulders were tense, his hand tight around the handle of his axe, his eyes jumping this way and that. He knew vampires, knew how they felt about their nests. The fact that they were being introduced into the territory by a member of that dysfunctional family wasn't enough to alleviate his worries. He wouldn't behave aggressively, but he wouldn't stop expecting an assault either.

His obvious discomfort stood in stark contrast to the outward calm that had surrounded Castiel as soon as he'd understood where they were. He walked beside Dean, head high and shoulders straight once more, arms hanging loosely at his sides like he had no fear of an attack, or trusted his own abilities and reflexes enough to consider being on his guard as unnecessary. To him, this was nothing but another diplomatic mission accomplished in enemy territory.

As they went on they met more and more vampires and every single one of them either straightened up or stopped what they were doing to stare at them, some hissing, some letting out their fangs, some frozen like marble statues. Several started following them, so that when they reached the heart of the realm, they had a whole escort keeping its distance but attracted by the unusual scene, eager to see how it would unfold.

The Alpha, when they finally arrived in front of him, was sitting on a throne carved out of what had once been a large, imposing tree. It was a dark figure—dark skin, dark clothes, the only dash of color a thin red silk scarf knotted around his neck, cutting through the black velvet of his doublet. He sat with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on the arms of his seat and his hands folded over his lap, and looked down at the vampires gathered around him like a monarch at his courtiers. As Benny approached, followed by Dean and Castiel, he watched them with cool, beady eyes, but didn't move.

The travelers' guide stopped five feet away from the throne and bowed slightly with a fearful reverence even he couldn't help in front of the First One of his species. He only straightened when the Alpha spoke:

"Benny," he said, half a greeting and half an apostrophe. "I have to admit, when I heard what you were bringing me, I didn't quite believe it. And yet…" He glanced at Castiel and Dean, his irises revealing nothing but the slightest undulation of curiosity in a smooth ocean of indifference. "Humans. Who have come here willingly, by the looks of it. I have to say, I wonder why."

Dean, who guessed that the moment required the skills of a politician more than the ingenuity of a tracker, remained where he was while Castiel stepped forward, head held high, shoulders pulled back, hand on the pommel of his sword. In spite of his tattered clothes and of the dirty streaks on his face, he suddenly looked every inch the noble who stood at the Queen's side during audiences, who masterfully led negotiations with foreign emissaries. He appeared more regal than the creature sitting on its throne, decked in velvet and gold. Seeing the contrast, Dean barely bit back a grin.

"Sir," Castiel said, briefly inclining his head in the smallest gesture of respect. It was obvious that he had no intention of bowing to a vampire, or of dignifying him with a higher title. The Alpha looked at him like he hadn't expected a human to talk. "I am Castiel of Novak and this is Dean Winchester," the knight went on. "We have come to you to present you with a request."

The Alpha's eyebrow shot up and he looked, for a second, amused. "A request?" he repeated, while titters and whispers spread among the vampires like shock waves. "Pertaining to what, I wonder?"

"Leviathans," was Castiel's simple answer. It was like putting a hand on a ringing glass: the murmurs broke off, the Alpha's faint smile faded. Behind them, even Benny shifted uncomfortably.

"They have invaded our lands," Castiel started to explain, encouraged by the fact that, even here in Purgatory, Leviathans were no laughing matter. "They poison our waters, plague our people and they don't show any sign of stopping. It's only a matter of time before they start attacking other territories beyond our borders." He paused to let the implications of that last sentence sink in. "Yet we do know of a weapon that could defeat them. My companion and I are in search of the ingredients required to perform the spell that will grant it its power." He broke off again, suspecting that what was about to follow would be the hardest part. "One of these ingredients is a small amount of your blood."

The Alpha's smile slid back in place as he took hold of himself. "My blood," he said slowly. He exchanged glances with the vampires nearest to him and scoffed. "No less."

Several of his subjects guffawed in imitation, others started whispering again. The Alpha let his eyes rove over them until their reactions naturally died down. When he looked back at Castiel and replied, his voice was clear and slightly mocking:

"My answer is no."

Castiel didn't react outwardly to such an adamant refusal, only raised his chin minutely. "May I enquire why?"

The Alphas shifted on his seat, leaning a bit more heavily onto his left elbow. "Disregarding the fact that you have killed several of my children unprovoked in the past-" he started, his eyes fluttering towards Dean as if he knew exactly how many vampires the man had killed, in Purgatory and on Earth. "-and that I have absolutely no guarantees that you'll use my blood the way you claim to, why would I want you to kill the Leviathans?" He didn't leave the travelers the time to ponder that question and went on: "Since they have been stupid enough to leave these lands, thirsty for conquest, and have been trapped at the bottom of some terrestrial sea as a reward for their blind greed, everything has changed here. This universe has become what it was always meant to be. Vampires have prospered and become the most powerful among the creatures dwelling in this realm. It's only a matter of time until the other races acknowledge that indubitable truth."

Dean felt tempted to snort at witnessing yet another example of the vampires' illusions of grandeur. He wasn't fooled. He'd seen and fought countless monsters that were far more dangerous than them—shtrigas, phoenixes, _dragons_. Only they were few and far between here in Purgatory, nowhere near enough to challenge other species. For these monsters' real powers manifested themselves in their ability to be discreet, to be forgotten, to evade hunters. They were often impossible to find, to track, to kill. Most of them still lived on Earth, had lived there for centuries, would live on for centuries—contrary to vampires. As far as Dean knew, those were nearly extinct.

"So let me ask you," the Alpha was saying, unaware of the hunter's scornful thoughts. "Why would I want to help you bring these misshapen serpents back here? When they die, where do you think they'll go?"

Castiel nodded slowly.

"I understand your wish to protect your lands," he started. "But-"

A chuckle from the Alpha interrupted him. "Our _lands_. How very human of you." His smile curled with contempt. "Do you think that pieces of dirt matters to us? That we need good soil for crops, resources for shelter and warmth?" He left it to the other vampires to snigger at the thought. "This goes much further than what your lesser minds are able to conceive. This is about world order, the natural world order, which is finally being restored. And believe me when I say that it is no use for you to try and stand in its way."

Castiel's frown deepened minutely as he thought, ideas and repartees darting through his mind like lightning, looking for the right connexion—only to be short-circuited when Dean abruptly cut in with an impatient hand gesture.

"Okay, you know what? This is bullshit."

He stepped forward, because what he'd been witnessing wasn't a negotiation between equals like he'd first thought based on the way the Alpha presented himself. No, this was trying to broke a bargain with monsters that would rather tear through their throats than listen to their demands. No politics were at play and pretending that this was anything like a civilized discussion was waste of time, in his opinion.

"You can talk all you want about world order and all that crap but all I hear is that you're scared. You're scared, because the way our mission's going there's a chance the Leviathans will come back here and soon. And as powerful as you like to pretend you are, you _know_ that you don't stand a chance against them. You're afraid that you'll be getting the bite for a change. And I get that," he said with a provocative grin. "I mean who wouldn't? I know I don't like risking being bitten. And man, those guys' fangs are nasty. A lot worse than yours, really." He shook his head, heedless of how the vampires around him were bristling and hissing at the implied insult. His voice grew more serious when he added: "But I've got news for you: you're going to get jumped, whether you want it or not. You think the Leviathans will consider themselves satisfied with our kingdom? With Earth? The way they're going, they'll have swallowed it whole pretty damn quick—and then they'll search for something else. They'll come here. After all, it's not like it'd be hard for them to come in. We didn't even have to knock! Only when they attack, they'll be far more powerful than they already are. They'll have all of Earth's resources to back them up. And they'll have the jump on you, 'cause you'll have been too busy burying your heads in the sand instead of getting ready to fight. World order, my ass. You're just the mice playing while the cat's away."

The Alpha's voice was flat and cold when he replied: "Be careful of what you say, boy."

"Yeah? Or what?" Dean goaded. Castiel threw him a narrow-eyed glare, considering what their position was, but the hunter either didn't notice, or chose once again to ignore him. "You'll have us killed?" He snorted. "I'd like to see you try. Hell, I'd love to see you get branded as the coward who had two humans killed by fifty vamps for daring try something he'd never do since he's scared like a rabbit. News run fast around here, I noticed."

"Besides," Castiel cut in, trying to regain control of the conversation. "There is a strong possibility that the Leviathans won't be sent back to Purgatory when defeated. The spell is extremely powerful. You might suspect it, since one of the key ingredients is an Alpha's blood. There's a chance that the enemy will not be killed, but purely and simply annihilated, like they'd never existed. The question is, do you think that this is a risk worth taking?"

His eyes never leaving the Alpha's, he swiftly reached out a hand to clasp it around Dean's forearm and squeezed tightly to forbid him to speak again, which he'd been ready to do. The knight had deliberately revealed that they didn't need the vampire's blood specifically, thus implying that they would try to go to another Alpha if their embassy here failed, probably to the latter's advantage. But he didn't need the hunter to rub that fact in the vampires' faces or provoke them into breaking the fragile truce that had left everyone unharmed up until now.

Dean understood the gesture and bit back his words with difficulty, opting for crossing his arms and glaring.

"You do make an interesting point," the Alpha conceded after several minutes of tense, expectant silence. He slightly inclined his head in Castiel's direction, acting for all the world like Dean wasn't standing right there. The hunter grit his teeth, but managed to stay silent. "Attack is the best defense. And knowing the Leviathans' insatiability, there is little doubt that they will indeed hunger for more than that little bundle of scum you call Earth." A pause. "I find myself inclined to take preemptive action in accordance with your plans."

Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep in his snark about all the theatrics to which the Alpha was resorting in order to avoid admitting that he'd changed his mind out of fear. Beside him, Castiel returned the vampire's head tilt, his face a polite but neutral mask any diplomat would envy.

"I imagine you have a receptacle?"

"Yes," Castiel replied. He raised a hand palm up in Dean's direction without looking at him. The hunter stared at him for a couple of seconds, mouth agape, before he started digging through his pouches, innerly showering the knight with abuse. He came up with a vial which he slapped into Castiel's waiting hand and huffed when the knight simply nodded—still without a glance—and stepped forward. He presented the container to the Alpha with a slightly most pronounced bow than his first one. Everyone watched in silence while the vampire took it, then used the nail of his right thumb to cut into his left wrist. The blood trickled down the skin then dropped slowly into the waiting glass. Once it was filled three quarters of the way, the Alpha put the cork back on, keeping his wrist raised towards one of his courtiers for him to press a surprisingly white handkerchief to the wound. He watched the dark red liquid for a couple of seconds, then handed it over to Castiel.

"If you use it for anything else than the purpose you claimed," he said, stopping his gesture before the knight's fingers could close around the glass. "I will know, and you will find out that Leviathans aren't the only things that can escape Purgatory."

"I understand," Castiel agreed. "Thank you."

As soon as he had the vial he stepped back until he'd returned to Dean's side.

"Good," the Alpha said. Then, with an impatient flick of the hand: "Now leave."

Castiel nodded once more, secured the vial in his pouch beside the blood of the Sorceress and turned around. Dean lingered for a second longer, frowning at the Alpha and letting his eyes rove over the vampires gathered around them. Once he was satisfied they wouldn't move, he also pivoted on his heels to follow the knight.

Without a word, Benny fell into step behind him, like it was expected of him to escort the small embassy back out of the territory.

"Benny," the Alpha called, making him stop and glance over his shoulder. "I know what you are doing. I'm warning you."

The look in his dark, round eyes was heavy with threat.

"I know," was all Benny answered. He turned away and lengthened his steps to catch up with the humans.

 

*

 

"What the hell was that back there?" Dean barked as soon as he and Castiel were out of earshot of the vampires, that is to say nearly outside of their territory. "You don't get to speak over me or ignore me like that, I'm not a dog, I'm not one of your lackeys-"

"Clearly you aren't," Castiel snapped back, low and dangerous. "Or you'd know when to keep your mouth shut. I should be the one asking you what you think you were doing."

Dean stopped walking and threw his hands up. "I had a plan, you dick!"

"A plan," Castiel said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then you will excuse me for disagreeing with you and considering that getting killed was not our best option."

"Dude, they're _vampires_. Easy to rile up and useless with their heads cut off. I was this close to have their wannabe king lose his temper. He was going to attack, I would've cut off his head, we would've had his blood and the others would've fled 'cause they don't know the first thing about planning a group assault. They're useless without a leader."

"And how is that any better than what actually happened?"

"Well, it had the advantage of not making me look like an idiot, for one."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "We have the blood. Contrary to what your poor bruised oversized ego might think, that's all that matters."

"Oh, 'that's all that matters'," Dean repeated sardonically. "Easy for you to say!"

"It is indeed," Castiel deadpanned. "But since we're on the topic of blood…" He untied his pouch and took out one of the filled vials. "Here. You should take it."

Dean frowned down at it. "Why?" he asked, making no move to do as he'd been told.

"You were right about one thing," Castiel explained. "It isn't good for us to get separated. Splitting the vials between us would be the best reminder of that necessity, it'll make it doubly important that we don't lose each other."

"And if we do for good then we'll be screwed," Dean countered. "I don't know about _you_ , but I certainly don't need to carry a vampire snack around in order to remember that things rarely end well if you try to deal with them on your own. Any hunter worth his salt knows that."

Castiel let out an exasperated sigh at the slight jab and dug into his pouch for the second vial. "Fine. Then you can take both of them."

"Why don't you take them both?" Dean asked, crossing his arms.

"We don't know what might happen-"

"And what, it has more chances of happening to you than to me?" Dean cut him off. "All I hear is you looking for an excuse to slack off."

"Of course not," Castiel said, trying to be patient. "But-"

"But _what_?"

Castiel gritted his teeth. Dean didn't know—couldn't know—what it had been like for him before they'd been reunited. What these countless days with no end in sight had done to him, to his belief in himself and in his ability to fulfill his duty.

He'd given up. His self-confidence and will had dissolved, eroded by time and wear, and with them his care of how he looked or how he carried himself—of everything, really. And even though things had changed, even though Dean had found him and dragged him out of that dark well, he still felt it inside. Felt the remnants of his faith, nothing but small pebbles smoothed out by the waves until they couldn't fit together anymore, couldn't be put back like the solid whole they'd once been.

Dean couldn't understand that, not only because he hadn't gone through the same trials, the same despair, but also because he hadn't witnessed it happening to Castiel. He failed to perceive how precisely the deterioration of the knight's outward appearance reflected the change that had occurred inside. To him the knight was still the same, still undoubtedly able to see their mission to the end. There was no reason for him to take the precautions Castiel suggested.

Trying to shake that belief, the knight knew, would be little more effective than using a rotten branch as battering ram against a three feet thick steel door. All that was left for him to do was rely on the hunter's faith in him until he could find it in himself again.

"Fine," he gave in, irritated by the hunter's stubbornness. He put the vials back where they belonged and threw a furious glance at Dean when the hunter grinned victoriously. "I expect this means you won't be lagging behind either."

"Come on, do you know who you're talking to?"

Satisfied that the matter had been settled in a way that suited him, Dean turned away.

"And you," he called to Benny, who'd been walking a couple of feet ahead but still listening to the discussion taking place behind him with no little amount of incredulous amusement. "What was that about? With your Alpha?"

The vampire glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. "I guess he doesn't like me making friends with humans. He suspects I'll try to skip town. That's treason."

Dean snorted. "I wouldn't blame you, but good luck with that."

Benny waited for the hunter to catch up to him before he asked: "And what does that mean?"

"Well, if there was a way out, I doubt there'd be that many fanged dicks straggling around."

"Yeah," the vampire drawled. "About that."

Dean and Castiel frowned and narrowed their eyes at the same time, although neither of them noticed it.

"I was kinda thinking," the vampire said. "Since you'll agree I've been so helpful and all-"

Dean nodded slowly, conceding the point without committing to anything.

"Surely you won't cut my pretty head off when I tag along through the portal, will you?"

"The portal?" Dean repeated.

"Call it whatever you want. The way out, back upstairs. On Earth."

"You're telling me there's a door…?"

"Several, actually," Benny replied with a smirk and a shrug. "Thought you knew. You used one to enter here, after all, even if I don't know which one. See, these portals only open for humans. I guess God knew you'd find ways to get lost here, what with Purgatory being the middle ground, so close to your plane. He made sure there was a way out for you."

"How nice of him," Dean hummed. "And exclusive." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You wanted in on the human privilege. That's why you helped us."

Benny flapped his arms once. "You got me, chief. As you said, you can't blame me for trying."

Dean and Castiel exchanged a glance. "You said Purgatory was a middle ground?"

"Between Earth and Hell, yeah," Benny gamely replied, wondering if the questions would lead him where he wanted.

"So if there are ways back to Earth around here, I guess there are also ways into Hell."

"Possibly. Why?" The travelers exchanged another glance, making him frown. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I think we are," Dean said. "We're on a three steps journey, and we're going down. Not up."

The vampire stared at him for nearly a minute, incredulous. "Man, you have a strange concept of leisure trips."

"You're disappointed," Dean noticed.

"Well, yeah," Benny admitted freely. "I kinda had gotten my hopes up, here."

"And what tells you I would've let you hop in on the cart?"

The vampire didn't answer, simply gave the hunter a look. Dean avoided his gaze, suddenly aware of how his distrust had mellowed and how obvious it must have been for Benny to notice. He even had an apology on the tip of his tongue, he realized. Because Benny was disappointed, not angry. In spite of the help he'd given, he didn't consider that Dean owed him anything. Which, subsequently, made the hunter feel like he did.

"You could still follow us to Hell," he suggested, half-jokingly. "We'll actually be trying to leave that pit afterwards."

"Nah, I think I'll pass," Benny replied with a smile, eyes stuck to the dead leaves at his feet. "Like they say, better the devil you know." He turned to the side and pointed with his mace. "That way."

"That way what?" Dean asked.

"The portal to Hell? I got nothing to lose at this point, might as well finish the job."

 

*

 

Once again, reaching their new goal took them several days. Benny showed the way, nowhere as chatty as he'd been before their interview with the Alpha, and the humans followed. Dean too was more subdued, making their days almost unnervingly quiet. That feeling was reinforced by the surprisingly small amount of monsters they met and by the fact that most of them didn't even engage in combat. They growled at them but didn't make a move to attack, or they veered off their path to disappear swiftly. It was as if word had spread that the travelers had an agreement with the Alpha vampire and therefore shouldn't be touched. As if the monster's ideas about the power of his race here had been founded after all.

In spite of it Castiel still felt suspicious, which his silence scarcely hid. Benny, he thought, had nothing to gain from helping them pass into Hell. On the contrary, it'd be far more advantageous for him to lead them into a trap and extort his way onto Earth against their freedom and safety. So the knight remained on his guard. He was surprised by Dean's blatant trust, to whom it hadn't occurred that Benny might betray them for his own interests.

He'd forgotten about what the hunter had told him back at the very start of their journey, when they'd still stopped at nightfall to share a meal over a fire. He'd forgotten the tales of hunts taking an unexpected turn, of monsters Dean had spared because not all of them were evil, not all of them let their instincts or nature take over. Not all of them forgot what it meant to be human when they'd been one once. Experience had taught Dean not to judge by appearance. It had also sharpened his ears and eyes until he could detect a lie even before it was uttered. As far as he could tell, Benny had been nothing but honest—or he was a far better swindler than anyone Dean had ever met.

The hunter didn't believe he was, though.

"It should be somewhere around here," the vampire finally said, as the creeping night slowly dragged back into grey the few colors that had managed to escape its darkness. "We better hurry."

Dean picked up on the veiled tension in the vampire's voice and frowned. "Why?"

As if to answer his question, a howl let itself be heard, echoing long and clear through the darkening undergrowth.

"I might've failed to mention that we're in the middle of werewolf territory," Benny said once it had faded, as if there was any chance that the hunter hadn't recognized that cry. "And they have this thing for hunting at night…"

Dean gestured at him, torn between incredulity and anger. But whatever he would've liked to say was cut off by the faint rustle they heard in the distance, in all directions. Following the vampire, they started to run.

It soon became clear that the werewolves had noticed their presence and that the tacit truce that had made the other monsters avoid them didn't apply when a territory was infringed upon. They were being surrounded, slowly but inescapably.

When Benny abruptly stopped, Dean almost barreled right into him and barely caught himself on time.

"Up there," the vampire said. He gestured towards the top of a hill, where a cluster of three trees had grown so close and so tall that their trunks had begun to merge together. A boulder stood against them, on the verge of being swallowed by the wood too. "Door's behind the rock, go!"

Castiel rushed on without question, but Dean paused. "What about you?"

"I'll hold them off until the portal's closed behind you, so-"

"On your own?" the hunter cut him off, eyes darting around him. He could see movement in the growing shadows, red pupils glowing in brief flashes, he could hear growls slowly coming closer. The pack wasn't a small one, and it was furious. "Are you crazy?"

Benny smiled scornfully. "It's not a bunch of werewolves that'll get me."

From what he'd witnessed since they'd met, Dean knew that the vampire was indeed an expert fighter, far more skilled than most of his kin. Still, he hesitated. No matter how gifted he was, going up against a whole pack alone was suicide.

"Aw, don't worry about me, chief," Benny said. "And don't be sorry. There's no way to know that me trying to pass through with you would've worked."

"But-" Dean started, but the vampire spoke over him:

"And, you know, there are many rumors about how to get out of this dump. Some say getting killed is the key. Maybe that's right, or maybe not, but I'm pretty sure that making a good deed will count in my favor if there's a chance I'll get another try upstairs."

Dean stared at him for a couple of seconds, at that smile full of bravado that didn't quite hide the resignation in these pale blue eyes. Without looking away he unsheathed his silver knife and handed it over. "Here," he said, forcing a smile of his own. "Stick it right into their hearts, it works like a charm. So, whatever you choose, you can give them a little hell first."

Benny's smiled widened. "Thanks, brother," he replied, taking the knife. "Now squat. I'll see you upstairs."

Dean patted him on the shoulder, then turned to run after Castiel, who was already at the trees, trying to dislodge the boulder. He glanced back once he'd reached the top of the hill, only to see Benny slowly strolling towards the approaching werewolves like he hadn't a care in the world.

"Dean!" Castiel shouted. He'd managed to open the doorway, leaning with all his weight against the stone that was trying to fall back in place. In front of him there was nothing but a bottomless hole, a dark void into which a sudden wind hurled and howled. It seemed ready to swallow whole anyone or anything foolish enough to step too close, which was exactly what Dean and Castiel had done. They exchanged a glance, nodded. Dean reached out a hand which Castiel seized in the hopes that it would be enough for them not to be separated during the expected fall into the unknown.

They took a breath and stepped through the doorway. The wind stopped abruptly. For a moment there was nothing, not even a sense of direction, only blackness and silence. Then a sharp tug, forward and down and to the side, like a blast of wind, like a giant wave against which they were powerless. Both Castiel and Dean tensed, tried to tighten the grip of their joined hands, to stay close. But they felt their fingers slip away from each other anyway, felt them being torn apart, felt the other being blown away with a shout they didn't hear and then-

Nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you have any questions or want to come say hi :)


	5. In Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for:** Alastair, torture, blood, gore, graphic depiction of violence and battlefields. (We're in Hell, so expect what you might imagine comes with the territory)

When Castiel regained consciousness, he found himself walking down a dark corridor, without any idea of how or when he'd ended up there.

He stopped and looked around, confused.

In the dim, red glow of rare torches, he could make out walls of unpolished stone running into the shadows, arching up into nothingness. Thick wooden doors stood at regular intervals, secured shut by solid iron locks, their only opening a small barred window situated at eye level. He was in a dungeon.

Around him the air was still and sultry. It burned his eyes and scalded down his throat with every breath he took. No matter how deep he made them it never felt like enough, left him panting. His nose was saturated with the pungent smell of blood and iron, of urine and sweat, of must and dirt, all of it overlaid by the stink of sulphur. It parched his mouth and tongue, leaving nothing but an acrid taste behind. And he could hear, filtering through the doors and ceaselessly echoing down the corridor, cries, whimpers and laments. A distant blaze roared, a backdrop to the jangle and rattle of chains, to the babble of forgotten prayers and exhausted tears.

There was no trace of Dean. He was alone.

Again.

Carefully, he started walking again. His steps rang out and resounded along the walls—only his. He repeatedly looked over his shoulder, squinted into the gloom, but couldn't see anyone, couldn't even make out if the corridor ever ended, or turned, or crossed another one. He didn't dare glance through the door windows, for fear of what he might see, didn't dare call out, for fear of what he might attract.

He walked and walked and walked. Nothing around him changed: he was still in the same corridor, still with the same amount of doors he could see in front of him and behind him, their differences too subtle to be visible in the darkness. He could've been walking for hours, but he also could've remained standing entirely still; it wouldn't have changed anything. He realized that he had no way of knowing. That he already had next to no idea how long he'd been here. It didn't feel like it had been a long time—he could still feel the phantom touch of Dean rough fingers against his, the faint moisture of his palm—but Purgatory had harshly taught him how little he could rely on his own perceptions in the realms beyond Earth.

He felt his heartbeat pick up in his chest, growing stronger with each step, more distressed. The corridor around him seemed to darken, its air to thicken, its warmth to spike. Soon he had to stop and fumbled for the wall with his left hand. The stone was hot and slick, but he leaned heavily against it anyway.

He tried to calm down, to breathe. In and out, slowly. He closed his eyes, wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand and struggled to push the rising panic back, to break up the claustrophobia closing around him like a vice, to prevent his thoughts from whirling down into the realization that, once again, he was trapped, he was alone, he was-

"You seem lost."

He tensed and snapped down his hand when he heard the voice—soft, quiet and feminine. There, in front of him to the right, one of the doors stood wide open. In his fit of anxiety, he hadn't even noticed it.

It allowed him a glimpse into the cell beyond, where a young woman was sitting, legs crossed. Her clothes were old and tattered, dirty—man's clothes, which she carried with ease. Both her wrists were encased in shackles, chained to the wall behind her. She was watching him, her large pale eyes filled with faint curiosity.

"Are you looking for something?"

Castiel looked up and down the corridor one more time, although nothing had changed as far as he could see.

"Yes," he finally answered, feeling himself quieten now that he was talking to someone. "Maybe you have seen him, or heard something. It would've been a man, a hunter. He entered here the same way I did, he's-" He floundered, at a loss for words. "He's like me. I mean-"

"You mean he's human, and alive," the woman finished for him. Castiel nodded. "I'm sorry. I haven't seen or heard anyone or anything. Well, apart from the usual. You're the first person I've seen in…" She trailed off, trying to remember, before shrugging as she gave up. "Well. In a very long time."

The knight looked at her, sitting on the dusty, dirty floor of her cell, and wondered why her treatment was different. Why her door was open while all the others were closed, taunting her with the promise of freedom turned vain by the chains fettering her to the wall. She didn't seem angry, though. Merely resigned.

"I could help you look for him," she said, guessing at his dismay through his lack of answer. "I've been here a while, I know my way around the place. Of course, it would imply unshackling me."

Castiel tilted his head to the side as he considered the offer, tempted but wary. The prisoner noticed.

"I know," she said with a crooked smile. "Me being here doesn't work in my favor. Were I in your shoes, I probably wouldn't trust me." He expression sobered. "I must have done something bad. Really bad. But the thing is, I can't even tell you what it was so that you can judge for yourself if you're willing to trust me or not in spite of it. I don't know what it is. I have forgotten. Hell does that to you." She paused before adding in a low voice, as if talking to herself: "After all this time, I don't even remember my own name."

In spite of all his misgivings, the knight felt his heart fill with pity upon hearing this. The woman simply smiled, sad and subdued.

"It's okay. I'm used to it. And I guess I did something to deserve it." She paused. "You can call me Bela. If I don't remember my name, I can still give myself one."

"My name is Castiel," the knight offered in return.

"Castiel," she repeated with a hum. "Very well, Castiel. What do you think?"

The knight slowly stepped closer until he was standing in the doorway of her cell. With some hesitation he replied: "I need you to be clear about what you would be committing to. I am looking for my friend, yes, since we've been separated upon our arrival. But beyond that we had a purpose in entering Hell. We need to find and talk to its King."

Upon hearing these words the woman briefly froze, a flash of fear darting through her eyes before she repressed it, smoothed her features with an easiness that was almost unsettling.

"That's different," she admitted after several seconds of silence, not quite able to hide the tremor in her voice. "I- Giving me my liberty of movement won't be- What use would it be to me, if all I do with it is throw myself into harm's way?" She shook her head. "I can't, I'm sorry."

Castiel nodded slowly. "I understand."

She perceived the depth of his disappointment as the hopeful perspective of finding a guide faded in front of his eyes, leaving him in the same darkness that had threatened to suffocate him. "Unless," she said slowly, eyeing him speculatively. "Unless you have something else you can give me. I'll help you find your friend as a repayment for getting me out of these chains." She raised her hands, making the metal clink. "Offer me something else, something I could use to escape, and I'll lead you to the King. Or at least close enough that all you'll need is a couple simple instructions, which you'll follow while I make myself scarce. I'd be ready to do that, if you have something to offer."

"Well, I don't-" Castiel stammered, looking down at himself, at his dirty clothes, worn and torn. "I don't have much."

The most valuable things he still had were his sword, from which he would not part, and his knife. Letting go of it, of any weapon, twisted his stomach uncomfortably. Apart from that he only had what little his pouches could hold: the vials of blood, the stone which had been given to him by the leprechaun Balthazar, some dried medicinal herbs and what remained of the silver coins he'd taken with him upon leaving the castle.

Bela's eyes sharpened as soon as she heard them tinkle.

"You have money?" she asked, in a tone that made it clear that that would be tempting.

"Yes," Castiel replied slowly, not quite able to hide his surprise. She noticed.

"Even demons are corruptible," she explained. "I heard rumors, about rogue reapers that hover at the edge of Hell, between here and Earth, ready to bring souls in through the back door. Maybe they can be persuaded to take one out instead. They always need currency, for when they're on Earth."

Castiel looked at her, weighing the urgency of the situation against the idea of letting out a soul so corrupted that it had condemned itself to Hell. But the woman in front of him didn't look evil. Or at least, not anymore, as if her torments had washed her clean, had uprooted the source of her wickedness instead of making it thrive. She wanted to go back to Earth, but who wouldn't, if they were trapped in that forsaken realm? Surely she was only wishing for some respite, not planning on picking back up her misdeeds. And what wrongs could she, a single individual, do that wouldn't pale in comparison to the havoc that the Leviathans were wreaking? Besides, there was no guarantee she'd even manage to escape.

And it wouldn't be the first risk he took on that quest.

"So if I free you and give this to you, you will help me find my friend and lead us to the King of Hell?" he clarified one last time, laying out the terms of their agreement.

Bela nodded solemnly. "If you promise you'll let me go once I've brought you far enough."

Castiel promised. She reached out her hand for him to put the pouch of money into her palm, and a second later it had disappeared in the folds of her clothes.

After that remained the matter of the chains. Castiel couldn't try and spring the shackles at Bela's wrists, as he would only risk causing her serious harm. She agreed that it would be better to attack her restraints where they were affixed to the wall, shrugging and saying that she could use the links as a weapon, if she held them the right way. She stood up and stepped as far as they allowed her to—which was barely three feet away from the wall—so as to leave the knight room to maneuver.

Castiel briefly inspected the slabs, found an angle of attack and took out his knife. He carefully slid its thick blade into the narrow space between the metal and the stone, as far as it could go. Once that was done, he wrapped both hands around the handle, took a breath, and tugged it sharply down and towards himself. He felt his arms and shoulders tense, then suddenly loosen when the screws snapped and the slab tore itself away with a screech. Behind him, Bela let out a trembling breath. He hurriedly repeated the operation with the other chain, worried about whom or what the noise might attract. Fortunately, the metal gave way once more without much resistance.

Bela stumbled away from the wall, as if incredulous, and rubbed at her wrist around the shackles. As she started to pick up the chains now hanging off of them, Castiel checked that his blade was undamaged beyond a couple of scratches, before sheathing it back. He walked to the door to see if anyone was coming.

The corridor was empty, in the exact same state as he'd left it. He turned his head back towards Bela to ask: "Which direction should we-"

He only saw her fist, wrapped in chains, coming right at his face. His reflexes made him duck on time to avoid taking it in the nose, but the punch still caught him on the temple and sent him careening back into the wall. His head knocked against the stone and he grunted, felt himself lose his footing. He threw a hand out to support himself, the other one darting to his throbbing skull. His fingers came back bloody.

He blinked at them as his vision swam. Faintly, he could hear light footsteps running away, and belatedly realized than Bela had left, taking his money, her newfound liberty and her promises with her. He squeezed his eyes shut, a curse that would've been more at home in Dean's mouth on the tip of his tongue.

The darkness was welcome. Pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, he took a series of deep breaths until the confusion and nausea had abated. Still, it took a couple more minutes for the ringing in his head to stop and to allow him to straighten. When his eyelids reopened, everything around him swayed slightly. He blinked once, twice and it all snapped back into place.

He swallowed. The first step he took turned into a stagger and he barely caught himself against the doorjamb.

He breathed.

"You okay, boy?"

Castiel raised his head—slowly so as not to worsen the situation—and saw nothing but the thick wooden door on the other side of the corridor. Through the barred window, a pair of eyes was watching him.

"I'm fine," he said, irritation and pain making his voice tense.

The man snorted. "Yeah, right." After a pause, he added: "But really, you shouldn't be surprised. You're in Hell. Did you really think anyone around here would be honest?"

"I gave her what she wanted."

"Before she delivered, yeah. Your mistake." The man's voice grew pensive. "If it's of any comfort to you, she probably won't succeed. She's been trying to swindle her way out since even before I arrived and it never worked. But she keeps trying." After a couple of seconds, he said so quietly Castiel almost missed it: "It might just be her own kind of Hell, that she can't give up on the idea."

Part of the knight felt another small stab of pity, but another part thought of how Dean would've reacted and knew it certainly wouldn't have been with sympathy. He probably would've grunted that the woman deserved it.

Where _was_ he?

"So is it true?"

The question pulled Castiel out of his preoccupied thoughts. "Is what true?"

The look in the man's eyes was as circumspect as his tone: "That you're looking for the King."

"Yes." The pain around his head had receded and he tugged the sleeve of his shirt over his palm to dab at the cut on his temple, hissing at the sting. Fortunately he wasn't bleeding from the back of his head, his fingers feeling nothing but a small bump throbbing faintly when he prodded at it. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"Everyone here knows, boy," was the man's answer.

Unfortunately, Castiel wasn't a resident of Hell and therefore belonged to those who didn't.

"Would you show me?" he asked, stepping into the corridor. His feet had recovered their assuredness. "Maybe I can…"

He tugged on the door to test it and almost fell backwards when it opened without resistance, without even a squeak. The man inside looked at him over a messy beard streaked with white, like he thought the knight was an idiot. He wore the plain but hard-wearing clothes of a commoner.

"The doors are never locked, boy," he said.

Castiel frowned in confusion. "Then why do you stay inside?"

The man sighed in slight exasperation. "Because we know what to expect here. It's small, it's _safe_. Well, most of the time," he corrected. "You never know who might suddenly decide to pay a visit, but still. It's kind of cosy, really, you know, on Hell's scale."

"But it's still a prison."

"Only smaller than the big one we're all trapped in," the man countered with a shrug. "And you don't want to know what can happen outside your little corner. Stepping out is literally tempting the Devil, and it's useless. We always end up back here. Might as well not move and spare yourself the pain and trouble."

Castiel stared at him, astonished and horrified at Hell's strategy and power, at it's ability to deprive people of one of life's most basic instincts, the yearning for freedom. It made them give up on the very concept, grow despondent and accept their imprisonment, all the while using nothing but their own fears and imagination to do so. Of course they'd prefer a small, dirty but _known_ cell to the infinite possibilities waiting outside, even though escape was one of them. Of course they'd choose to stay inside, trapped, if the alternative was to suffer _more_.

Only it wasn't really a choice.

"I gather you'd rather stay in here, then," Castiel said.

The man threw him a profoundly unimpressed look. "If after what just happened to you you still intend to ask for help from the inmates around here, then you're even more of an idiot than I thought."

Castiel gritted his teeth. "I need a guide," he said. "Are you telling me I'd better go look for a demon instead?"

The prisoner tilted his head to the side, conceding the point. He seemed to mull over the situation, until he let out a sharp breath. "Guess I'll have to do it, then. Take you to the King, I mean. And before you start asking or promising the moon, no, I don't want anything from you. I just don't want to have your mess weighing on my conscience."

Castiel stepped back to let him come out of the cell, words of thanks on the tip of his tongue.

"And anyway, it's not like I'm risking much," the man said. "The current King likes me, as creepy as it sounds."

"The King knows you?" the knight asked incredulously.

"The King knows everyone," the man replied. "But I'm a special case. From what I gathered, I was the last deal he made as a crossroads demon before he climbed onto the throne. I guess to him it has some weird sentimental value," he added with biting sarcasm that called the shadow of a smirk on Castiel's lips.

The knight reached out a hand, hoping he wasn't making a mistake this time. "I'm Castiel of Novak."

The man rolled his eyes, but accepted the handshake. "Figure you'd be a fancy name. Mine's Bobby, in case you were wondering. Now off we go, before I change my mind."

With that he turned away and started down the corridor. Castiel followed.

 

*

 

Castiel was a warrior.

He'd stood in the middle of a plain at the end of a battle, exhausted and hopeless in spite of a victory. He'd seen the countless bodies of enemies and allies alike, mangled corpses with severed limbs and shattered ribcages, their white bones cutting through fabric and flesh. He'd slipped over that acrid mixture of mud and sweat and blood, on entrails spilling from gaping wounds, left to dry and swell in the sun. He'd retraced the features of smashed faces, tried to see beyond broken noses and caved in skulls, beyond missing teeth and shattered jaws. More than once, with a sinking heart, he'd recognized a friend and closed their unseeing eyes for the last time. He'd watched crows circle and croak, land and feast, tear off skin and voraciously, mercilessly dig into tender organs. He'd smelled the stink of dried blood, of sweat, of excrements, overlaid by the nauseatingly sweet odor of rotting carcasses. He'd listened to the rattle and whimpers of the dying, to the curses and groans of the wounded. Oftentimes he'd been the one to deliver the deathblow, to hold a comrade through amputation so as to avoid the spread of gangrene, to sew a gaping wound in order to hold in bruised intestines, hoping it would be enough but knowing how slim the chances of survival were.

He'd weathered it all, hardened and enduring, had kept on fighting, had kept having faith. He had never faltered and never looked away.

He was looking away now.

Hell was…

There weren't words, to describe Hell.

Castiel and Bobby had stridden through a maze of corridors, so intricate and warped that the knight had often been convinced that they were lost, that no one could find their way through it. They'd turned at crossings he wouldn't have noticed had he been on his own, leaving him to wonder how many he'd missed before he'd met his guide. They'd taken unending stairs, had walked and walked and walked, had passed countless doors and somehow they'd left them behind, had reached larger rooms, then halls, then caves, then spaces that seemed to stretch on forever in all directions, even down where the ground was cracked and opened into the abyss. Desperate calls rose from it, from everywhere. Castiel carefully didn't look.

He'd rapidly understood that he couldn't. Not if he wanted to go on. He kept his eyes riveted to the back of his guide, didn't let them get caught by the sights tugging at the corner of his vision. Even those brief glimpses were enough for him to taste bile at the back of his throat, to feel dizzy and sickened with horror.

But even if he didn't look, he heard.

The worst were the weakest cries, the choked babbling in which he couldn't make out a word, the supplications of people reduced to a stage beyond language, to the level of whining animals begging for a respite they wouldn't get. It was humanity torn to shreds, reduced to nothing but suffering and misery.

Castiel tried very hard not to wonder if somehow, somewhere in these wide chambers and pits, there could be someone he'd once known. The mere thought made his stomach churn.

His second concern was for Dean. He kept thinking of the hunter, wherever he was. Hopefully he was heading towards the King's chambers too, like Bobby had suggested he could, thus convincing Castiel that heading in that direction would be the best way for them to be reunited. The knight hoped it was. He thought of Dean seeing those things, hearing those things. He himself had seen and heard and smelt the battlefield. He wasn't sure that anything Dean had been confronted to during his hunts had prepared him to what he would witness here, not on such a scale.

After a while they left the tortured souls behind, crossing a large expanse of bare, sterile earth. It stretched around a huge mass of earth and rock, a mountain, a fortress. When Castiel looked up, he saw wide arcades arching up from it in all directions, colossal pillars rising up into the gloom and disappearing out of sight, the very structure holding Hell together around its center. As he and his guide approached, he could make out several openings, mouths of stone swallowing and regurgitating the wretched creatures that the King called to him or sent away. Rare were the ones that lingered.

Yet when they arrived close enough for Castiel to realize how large these entrances actually were, they came upon a creature that didn't seem to be going anywhere. For a second the knight almost believed that she was human, a short woman with black curls and dark red lips. But when she turned her head towards them in the reddish light, her eyes flashed entirely black.

"Well, well, well," the demon drawled with a smirk. "I can't believe my own eyes. Bobby Singer, in the flesh."

"Meg," the man grunted in answer.

She looked amused. "It's been a long time since you crawled out of your hole. I thought you liked it there."

"What can I say," he snarked. "Everyone needs some fresh air from time to time."

"And here I thought you were showing your new friend around. I have to say, you know how to choose them." She let her eyes rove over Castiel as she spoke, smirk widening when the knight shuffled uncomfortably. Bobby crossed his arms, resting his weight on his right leg and thus subtly putting himself between them.

"Well, not everyone's cursed with making things awkward."

Meg wrinkled her nose. "Oh, careful. Such words can hurt a girl's feelings."

"I thought losing the ability to have those was part of the initiation ritual."

"If I didn't know better, I would almost think you were trying to be smart," Meg said, shaking her head. "And yet you're bringing your new protégé to the kinglet. Clearly you're not thinking straight."

"That's rich coming from you," Bobby snorted. "Since you're standing right here, straggling near his chambers. As far as I know, he doesn't hold you in such high esteem."

The demon shrugged. "I can go wherever I like. After all, the Queen would be so very upset if one of her trusted lieutenants were to disappear while taking a walk. But you're right. There's nothing for me to do here, I'm bored. Meanwhile," she added, glancing at Castiel one more time. "I've heard that Alastair has found himself a new chew toy. Now _that_ will probably be worth the detour." With a last smirk, she turned away. "Have fun with the usurper, while you can."

Bobby followed her with his eyes as she strolled away and only resumed walking once she was far enough for her dark figure to melt into the dim landscape. Castiel fell into step beside him, frowning.

"I wasn't aware there was a Queen in Hell," he remarked.

"Yeah, well, there is," Bobby replied. "According to her, anyway. Her name's Abaddon." He glanced at the knight. "And don't go thinking this is some cute love story and that Crowley got married. Hell's throne has been a coveted spot ever since the Devil got trapped in the Cage."

"So the both of them are fighting for it?"

"Got it in one," Bobby mumbled. "It's civil war, more or less."

Castiel stopped walking, shoulders tense. It took Bobby a couple of steps to notice that the knight wasn't following anymore and he turned around with raised eyebrows.

"Then which one of them is the rightful sovereign of Hell?"

Bobby watched him incredulously for several long seconds. He couldn't know how important the question was, or why. But it was. What if Castiel obtained the King's blood, unaware that that title was nothing but a screen of smoke? What if it hadn't the power it was supposed to have and that power was residing in someone else instead?

"There's no rightful anything, boy, you're in Hell," Bobby said. "Legitimacy is nothing you have, it's something you take. Might makes right."

"Then which one is the most powerful as of yet?" Castiel insisted. "Which one stands to win?"

The man snorted. "You think I have any idea? No one can make head or tail of the workings of this place, no one can predict what will happen in a second or in a minute, or at any time. That's the whole point of Hell. But," he added when he saw Castiel narrow his eyes and clench his jaw. "I'd say right now Crowley's the one who has the most influence. Abaddon's stayed on Earth too long, having fun damning humans to Hell until it bit her in the ass and she got trapped. Not forever, mind you, but long enough for people around here to consider her a lost cause. Demons are forgetful that way. Only now she's back and making her claim. Of course, Crowley won't go down easy, or at all if he can help it."

Castiel nodded slowly, trying to determine if he could trust the prisoner's undoubtedly limited perspective. But did he have a choice? The situation was in no way clear. He could only hope that it was still stable enough for the title of King to be worth something. Confronting the demon himself was the only way the knight had to try and evaluate things.

"Very well," he said. "Take me to him."

Bobby rolled his eyes at the order and turned around, grumbling. What little Castiel caught of him reminded him keenly of Dean cursing the nobility.

Before they entered the mountain he let his eyes rove over the deserted plain one last time and wondered again where the hunter was.

 

*

 

The King of Hell, when they reached him, was nothing like Castiel had expected.

He was sitting on a throne made of gold and broken bones and appeared as a rather short man, stocky, dressed all in black. His sober clothes gave him the looks of an undertaker, his short beard those of a merchant, and yet every demon present in the room cowered in front of him, took his orders with meek servility. Half a dozen of them were standing in a short line in front of his seat. The newcomers waited patiently as the King dealt with them one after the other. Once they'd been dispatched and had scurried away, the latter turned to Castiel and his guide like they were nothing but the next subject that had come on his demand and were here to do his bidding.

"Ah, Robert," he exclaimed with a smile that, on his lips, took on a shade of malevolence. "Always here when I need it, right on time." He glanced at Castiel. "You, I suppose, are…"

He let his voice trail off, prompting the knight to introduce himself. Castiel took a step forward, aware of his poor appearance but unwilling to let it impact his bearing.

"Castiel of Novak," he announced with a short incline of the head. "I-"

"-come here because of the Leviathan issue," the King cut him off. He flapped a hand, nonchalant and impatient at the same time. "Spare me the speech, I already know what you have to say. The fate of the world is in the balance, bla bla bla. But you, clever little ants that you are, have found a way to take them out and sent your bravest soldier as an envoy to get help from the King of Hell Himself." He sighed and shook his head. "Humans are so predictable."

Soon his sinister smile returned and he settled himself more comfortably in his throne. With his fingers interlaced on his lap, he was the very picture of satisfaction.

"So," he said. "Since I knew you were coming, I had this prepared for you." With a flick of the hand he made a vial appear between his fingers. He held it out and at once a demon scampered forward to take it from him and bring it to Castiel. The knight accepted it, turning it over on his palm.

"Blood," the King supplied. "Mine, of course. As I know it's the last ingredient you need."

Castiel stared at the vial. He looked up at the King, disbelieving and wary. "Ho- _Why_?"

"Why am I helping you?" The King huffed in exasperation. "Is that so inconceivable that I would want to help save your measly little planet?" he asked to the room at large.

No one answered, for fear of provoking his wrath. Even the knight preferred to abstain from commenting.

"Fine, I admit it," the King finally said, curling a hand to inspect his nails. "I care little about Earth or the wellbeing of its inhabitants. I, after all, thrive on their utter misery. But even though Leviathans contribute to make it reach delicious proportions, I have found that they also prevent me from reaping the benefits and thus enjoying it to the fullest." His hand closed into a fist. "I like order, you see, and they bring nothing but chaos. Besides, they consumed several souls with which I had a contract and that I will therefore never get to collect. This is unacceptable." He tilted his head to the side. "In that case, a little payback is nothing but fair play."

He paused, giving his words the time to properly sink in. Castiel was still reeling a little, thrown off-balance by how easy this had been. He'd spent the whole way to the throne hall thinking through his arguments, expecting a scene similar to or even harder than the confrontation with the Alpha vampire in Purgatory. He'd made an effort to remember what the hunter had said back then, hoping to use his words in a more diplomatic fashion because of the impact they'd had, no matter how much the monster had tried to hide it. And he'd turned over in his head what little he knew of the current situation in Hell, wondering how he could use it to his advantage. He'd been ready to present granting Earth some help as a display of decisiveness and power that would prove who was in control, would be the action of Hell's rightful sovereign, since the spell would only work with the blood of its actual King. He'd been ready for a fight of words.

All of it had been for naught.

"Now, if you please," the King said before Castiel could find a reason to question his generosity. He'd turned to the knight's guide. "Robert, will you be so kind as to lead him to the Reapers? Surely, one of them will be inclined to bring him back where he belongs—in return for a small favor, of course."

Bobby nodded and turned away without question, happy to get away from the King's sight so soon and unscathed. Except-

"Wait," Castiel found himself saying, not having moved an inch after he'd slipped the vial into the pouch where the other two lay. Everyone in the room paused and stared at him, incredulous at his having dared to utter such a command in presence of the King. The demon, who'd turned away to share something with his second in command, like he'd already forgotten the knight's presence, looked back at him with faintly raised eyebrows.

Castiel made sure not to shift or show any sign of nervousness. "I didn't come here alone," he said, firm voice carrying throughout the room. "And yet my companion has been separated from me. Could you tell me where to find him before I go?"

From what he'd gathered through Bobby's sparse words, the King of Hell was aware of everything that went on in his realm, knew every soul trapped in its torments. Surely he had felt it when two living humans had entered from Purgatory and would be able to track their movements, no matter where they wandered.

The King stared, exchanged a look with the demon standing slightly behind his throne, brought his eyes back to the knight.

"I'm the King of Hell," he finally said, vexation clear in his voice. "I have other things to do than care about your lost property. Besides," he went on before Castiel could protest. "He's probably been found already. And here is one of the first rules of Hell: what you find, you own. I'm sorry—or, you know, not—but that hunter is probably ours by now."

He flicked two of his fingers as a clear sign that Castiel should leave. Castiel breathed in sharply, determined not to move an inch. But before he could say anything a hand clamped down on his arm and tugged him away with surprising force, back the way they'd come.

"Are you crazy, boy?" Bobby hissed at him, his fingers circling the knight's wrist like a vice, unyielding despite Castiel's efforts to free himself or slow him down. "You don't want to get on his bad side, especially not after he's _helped_ you."

"But-"

A furious glare from the man followed by another sharp jerk made Castiel click his mouth shut. He had no choice but to follow. Bobby only let him go once they were out of the vast throne hall, back on the wasteland separating its walls from the pit. The knight rubbed at his forearm, mutinously glaring at his guide. Bobby didn't notice, too busy looking back to make sure no one had followed them to call them back on the King's whim.

"Come on," he said once it had become clear they could be on their way. "I'll show you the way out."

"No."

Bobby threw Castiel an aggravated look, which the knight sustained without flinching.

"I have to find Dean," he said.

He was in the situation in which Dean himself had been back in Purgatory—only worse, because he was in possession of all that for which they'd been looking, all three vials of blood. A way out had just been offered to him on a platter. As far as their mission went, he had absolutely no reason to linger.

No reason but for the fact that he had no idea where Dean was, what was happening to him. And suddenly he understood what Dean had meant, what Dean had felt, at the idea of leaving him behind in a realm other than Earth, from which he would have little chance of escaping. He understood why Dean had relentlessly looked for him, why leaving Purgatory without him had not been an option. He could leave Hell right now, go back to Earth and fulfill their mission… Only no, _no_ , he couldn't. Not without trying to find Dean first.

"Dean." Bobby's voice was flat. "Your… 'companion'."

"Yes."

Bobby pursed his lips. He looked hesitant, his eyes wary as they rested on the knight, as if unsure of how he'd react to whatever he was going to say. "You heard Crowley."

"Yes," Castiel replied, gritting his teeth. "But he's like me, human, and alive. He didn't do anything to deserve Hell, to end up trapped here. If there's anyone he belongs to, it's himself. Hell has no right to keep him."

"I'm pretty sure Hell _gives_ itself the right, boy," Bobby countered softly. "And he's the one who came and jumped into the pit head first."

"And?" Castiel challenged. "I did too. Why should his fate be any different from mine?" He tried another angle of attack. "All I need to do is find him."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "And how do you expect to do that? Hell's huge, boy. It might even be larger than good ol' Earth."

"You can help me," Castiel said. "You know your way around."

All he got in return was a snort. "I know my way around a very small part of my circle, and mostly the way leading to the King's throne room. There are nine circles of Hell, boy. Maybe more. And believe me when I say, most of them you don't wanna see, or even know they exist."

"We came in through the same door," the knight tried to reason. "Surely we landed around the same place. Maybe if you bring me back to your cell- He's probably somewhere in that dungeon."

Bobby's voice was low when he asked: "And what if he isn't?"

"Then I'll look elsewhere. I don't care-"

"You don't care how long it takes?" the man finished for him. "And tell me, what happens upstairs in the meantime? Surely if even the King is ready to lend a hand what's going on on Earth is pretty bad. And you want to go on a search for your long lost friend instead?" Castiel pressed his lips together, painfully aware of the direness of the situation. Bobby went on: "Boy, you have to know the King doesn't do things for free. He gave you his blood. Maybe the life of your friend is the price to pay." He paused before cautiously adding: "You probably knew when you left home that this was the price you might have to pay."

"No," Castiel replied at once, unable to even take such an abhorrent idea into consideration. "I refuse." He balled his hands into fists. "Why should Dean be the one to pay, while I come out of this unscathed?"

"The way you're talking, the guilt might eat at you enough for it to be the worst end of the deal," Bobby pointed out.

"This is not a deal," Castiel snapped.

Bobby scoffed. "This is Crowley, King of Hell, former King of the Crossroads. Of course it's a deal. You just forgot to ask about the exact terms before you agreed to it."

"You're saying I condemned Dean."

"Looks like it," Bobby confirmed with a shrug.

Castiel could feel his entrails tighten and churn with icy horror at the mere thought of it. "I didn't," he protested. "You can't hold me accountable for parts of the agreement of which I wasn't informed and therefore unaware. The King didn't say anything about this when I mentioned Dean. What he did say was that what you find, you own." As he spoke his voice had strengthened, growing with his determination. "So all I have to do is find him."

"Once again, how do you plan to do that?"

"I'll ask." Surely the demons of Hell knew what happened there too. Surely a living human being entering the realm was something remarkable enough for it to be talked about. After all, nearly all monsters had known about them in Purgatory.

Castiel looked around the barren plain, trying to catch sight of someone, anyone.

"And you think demons will help you."

"Maybe," Castiel replied with a confidence he didn't feel. "If I offer them something they want. That's how they work, isn't it?"

"Are you telling me you're offering to sell your soul for that idiot?" Bobby asked, voice rising.

Castiel glared at him. "Don't be stupid. Surely there's something else they might want or need."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that," Bobby bit back.

But Castiel wasn't listening to him, as he'd suddenly noticed that the demon they'd crossed path with earlier, Meg, had returned. She was leaning against a large boulder standing not too far away from the entrance out of which they'd come, throwing and catching a small object like she was playing jack while she waited.

Vaguely wondering for what or whom she was waiting, Castiel walked up to her, watching her with calculating eyes and preparing the words that might convince her to help. If he inferred that him finding Dean would displease the King she'd probably be inclined to assist him, since she was supporting his competitor to the throne.  
His half-sketched plan fell to dust as soon as he realized just what she was toying with. Without thinking he snatched it in mid-air to make sure. It was what he'd thought: a perfectly carved wooden knight, the one Dean's hands and blade had shaped through the night at the foot of the mountains.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

The demon didn't seem bothered by him taking away her newest possession, on the contrary. She was smiling, clearly drawing enjoyment from the hard tone of his voice, and readily answered: "It was among the things Alastair took from his newest pet project. I went to take a look, as I said, and I was right: it was really worth the detour." She paused. "I don't suppose I'll be getting this back," she said, nodding towards the wooden chess piece.

Castiel closed his fingers around it. "It doesn't belong to you."

She raised her hands in front of her in a placating gesture. "Suit yourself."

"Who is Alastair?" the knight asked Bobby, who'd reluctantly followed.

"You don't wanna know," the man replied, looking a bit pale.

"One of Crowley's most trusted," Meg butted in. "And I have to admit one of the most gifted demons when it comes to torturing new souls. Really knows how to break them and recruit them to our cause."

"And this," Castiel asked haltingly, holding up the knight. "You found this amongst the belongings of a- a soul he was torturing?"

His throat and stomach were knotted with anguish, so tight he thought for a second he was going to be sick. It was a thing to imagine Dean—so generous and sympathetic—witnessing the horrors of Hell. It was another to know he was having them directly inflicted upon him.

"Maybe," Meg quipped in answer, reveling in his distress.

Castiel considered that to be enough of a confirmation and turned to Bobby. "Take me there," he urged.

"No way," the man exclaimed, taking a step back and shaking his head. "That rack's like a magnet, if a soul goes near then it'll be the next one on it and you'll excuse me, but I won't go there if I can avoid it."

Castiel tilted his chin up and narrowed his eyes in righteous anger. "You did something to end up here," he accused. "But Dean is nothing but a good man, a devoted brother, a dedicated servant to our Queen. He came here to save our kingdom, aware of the dangers but ready to sacrifice himself for the good of our people, and you, you who damned yourself to Hell by your own actions, _you_ will put yourself in front of him?"

But Bobby didn't recoil under the accusation, simply straightened his shoulders while he squarely met the knight's condemning glare. "You don't get to judge me, boy," he growled. "Yes, I made a deal. I sold my worthless soul. But I did it for the people I loved, for my wife and my kid, and I don't see how that's different from your pal. And I accept my fate, I accept my punishment for what it is. But I won't go looking for more."

They held each other's gaze, neither willing to back down, until Castiel realized Bobby wouldn't budge and he was only losing precious time.

"Then I'll find him myself," he snarled.

Meg chose that moment to remind them of her presence. "I can show you the way," she said, tilting her head. "If you'll follow me."

"Why would you do it, when he won't?" Castiel asked.

"Why, but for the look on your face when you'll see what's been happening to your friend," she replied with a delighted grin. "You stupid little humans are so deliciously emotional. Now come on, Little Squire, right this way."

She gestured and started walking in the direction she'd just indicated. After several seconds of hesitation, Castiel followed.

He'd barely taken five steps when he heard a row of expletives ring out behind him. An instant later Bobby was falling in step with them, looking sullen and glaring when Castiel opened his mouth to ask what he was doing.

"Can't let you go unsupervised," he grumbled. "It's a receipt for trouble." After a short silence, he conceded: "Your companion, Dean, he didn't make no deal. Crowley's keeping a clean business, if you can believe it. There might be a chance for him to be let go of."

 

*

 

Castiel clung to the hope that Bobby's words had awakened in him during the long journey that followed, for what he saw, what he heard nearly made him lose any spark of it that was left on several occasion. Never before had he been so cut off from the source of his faith while standing so close to things calling it into question, making it waver.

He walked.

They crossed the plain, entered a cavern and climbed down narrow stairs winding down around a large bottomless pit. Its darkness and silence swallowed the faint echoes of their steps, more unnerving than the rattle of the souls and their torments. The steps curved down and down and down, hypnotic in their endless regularity. Several times Castiel's body slid into a haze, lost its rhythm and nearly toppled into the gaping abyss. He barely caught himself or was held back by Bobby, and every time Meg glanced back, a smirk tugging at her lips. After that she shrugged and went on—and on and on. It felt like they'd reached the entrails of the earth, like soon they wouldn't be allowed to go further. And yet they did.

They reached another landing, another opening that for once Meg didn't ignore. They entered it, diving for a while into utter darkness, until they crossed a doorway and found themselves walking through a series of narrow rooms and stairs. The air was so damp and hot it was suffocating, made Castiel feel claustrophobic. His physical distress grew so sharply and suddenly that it took him a while, in between wiping his brow and gasping for breath, to realize that somewhere, somehow, he could hear someone humming.

The melody grew stronger as they walked and turned, passed doorways opening into indescribable scenes of pain and cruelty. Not even the loudest, most pitiful cries could cover the harmonious sounds. They were interspersed with sung words Castiel didn't catch but which were becoming clearer and cleared. Yet he only realized that the voice was their guide until they reached the larger, dirtier room in which they found its owner.

And in which they found Dean.

Castiel froze when he saw him. The hunter was naked, bound to a wheel of metal by ropes wrapped so tight they'd rubbed the skin of his ankles and wrists raw. His whole body was glistening with sweat and smeared with blood. His head was bent forward, his eyes fluttering. He was nearly unconscious.

"Oh, visitors," the owner of the voice said, glancing back at them. He had the appearance of a thin but tall man with pale skin, his short beard and rare hair peppered with grey, his neat clothes hanging off his wiry frame. Every detail concurred to make him look harmless. But his hands and forearms were covered in blood, his fingers cradling a simple but sharp blade, only one among the countless weapons and utensils spread out on the table beside him. And the look in his eyes…

Castiel clenched his teeth and reflexively wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword.

"Do I finally have some students and admirers?" the demon—Alastair, Castiel surmised—asked. "It wouldn't surprise me, it's been a long time coming. We'll all agree that I am the best at what I do and that every one could benefit from my teachings. And what a lesson it would be, now that I have the perfect subject." He turned back towards Dean. "Such a fine specimen. I mean, listen to this-"

Slowly, almost lovingly, he run his knife diagonally from the hunter's stomach to his pelvis, deep enough to leave a bleeding trail behind, probably even a scar, but not piercing through the skin and uncovering the entrails. Dean let out a strangled cry, clearly not in possession of enough strength to really cry out. It ended on a pitiful squeak when Alastair ended the blade's path and angled it so it dipped in through the muscles and tendons. He worked with the precision of a surgeon, perfectly aware of where he could stab with maximal pain and minimal damage. His purpose wasn't for his victim to die, much to the contrary.

Closing his eyes, he hummed again like Dean's complaint was music to his ears.

"Perfect," he sighed when the hunter's voice trailed off. With a smile, he raised his hands and eyes up, as if thanking a higher entity. "I'd almost forgotten. It's been years, maybe decades, centuries, since I last cut through actual flesh. I'd forgotten how it feels like, to me, to the soul inside." He titled his head to the side, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. "Maybe the prodigal brat is right, maybe we should spend more time upstairs, mh?"

He ran his blade along Dean's cheek, the metal scraping against the stubble and leaving a thin cut behind. A drop of blood slowly swelled and slid down. Alastair wiped it with his thumb before licking it away. The hunter barely twitched.

"Delicious," the demon declared. He took a step back, eyes roving over the expanse of skin. "A whole, perfect, unblemished parchment to write upon, all for me."

As if to confirm his words, he passed a hand over the cut on the hunter's belly. When he took his palm away the skin was repaired, smooth and pale as if it had never been sliced, and yet the hunter choked like he'd been stabbed. His hands briefly tightened into fists as his arms strained against his restrains, then relaxed, or rather gave out because of sheer exhaustion.

Castiel wondered how many times the demon had done this already, carved into flesh and nerve and bone, then wiped it all away only to start all over again. He felt like he was going to throw up and called upon his years of experience to push it down. His fingers were wrapped so tight around the hilt of his sword that he could feel the line of the leather dig into his skin. He walked forwards.

"He's not yours," he stated and scolded himself for the waver in his voice.

Alastair barely glanced at him and started humming again as he sorted through the knives he had at his disposal. Castiel took another step, careful not to look down at the display of instruments. He made sure his tone had regained all its firmness when he ordered:

"Release him. Now."

Alastair paused and looked up at him, the tips on his fingers resting on the handle of a flame-bladed knife.

"He hasn't done anything to deserve Hell's torments," Castiel went on. "He doesn't belong here, he doesn't belong to you. You will let him go."

The demon raised his eyebrows. "Now why would I do that?"

Rapid as a snake, he snatched the knife and embedded it into Dean's thigh, provoking a shout that cut itself off at once. He slowly drew the blade out, its waves guaranteeing an ugly cut that would take ages to heal, if it ever did.

"Listen to him, _look_ at him," Alastair said, glancing between the hunter and the knight. "He's so responsive, he shows such great promise… He's a warrior, isn't he?" He closed his eyes and sighed in satisfaction. "So much pain, so much guilt… Oh, it'll be a delight to break him down. And then-"

"This is my last warning," Castiel cut him off, unsheathing his sword.

Alastair threw him a look. "I'm literally quaking in my boots," he said derisively, before turning his back to the knight, a smaller knife in hand. He attacked Dean's wrists and ankles, carving small parallel cuts just deep enough to weaken the tendons without drawing too much blood. The aim was clear: if the hunter struggled against the ropes, if he attempted to free himself, the tendons would snap, inflicting the pain he'd tried to escape. And there was little doubt that Alastair would make him try to fight against whatever he'd planned.

Castiel would not let him put his design in motion. Furious, he walked up to him, reaching out a hand to snatch the demon's shoulder and draw him back, only to suddenly find himself down on his knees, entrails writhing with pain, with little to no understanding of what had just happened.

"Wait your turn," Alastair tsk-ed without a backward glance. "Humans are so impatient."

He'd started cutting along Dean's ribs, long thin slashes tracing the bone through the skin, making it painful for the hunter to even breathe. One rib after another he underlined, showing no sign of stopping, leading one to wonder what was going to happen when he'd reach the end of the hunter's ribcage. Dean took it without tensing, without a whimper, but he'd started panting, dizzy with blood loss as the thick dark liquid trickled down his sides, his hips, his legs then fell to the ground, one drop after another.

Seeing it gathering in the dust, into a small puddle of life slowly trickling away, gave Castiel a strength he hadn't suspected, born from outrage and fear and urgency. He threw a kick with all the might he could gather, his foot colliding against the underside of the table. The wooden surface wavered and fell over, all of Alastair's utensils and jars sliding down, falling and shattering against the moist stone. The noise was enough to draw the demon's attention away from Dean, to make him turn around in surprise. His face was the picture of dismay.

"Now that is not polite," he said.

But his astonishment also meant that he'd briefly lost the control he'd had over the knight's body, and in that half second of freedom Castiel picked up his sword and jumped to his feet. He used the boost it gave him to take a step forward, grabbed the demon and ran him through with his sword.

"Do you really think that stick will kill me?" Alastair snarled. He raised a hand, intent on sending the knight flying.

Before the demon could gather enough power Castiel took a breath, tightened his hold around the handle as he drew into the faith coiled deep inside him, every sliver of it, no matter how faint or small. Then he sharply turned the blade and drew it up.

"I _know_ it will," he gritted out between his teeth as Alastair gasped. The demon looked up at him, mouth agape, eyes wide. He recovered, though, and smirked, blood welling between his teeth.

"Blessed blade, eh?" he said with a choked laugh. "Mmh, yes, I can feel it, the grace. Castiel's, if I'm not mistaken." He seized the blade near the hilt, the flesh of his hand hissing and blistering at the contact of the metal that had been dipped in holy water upon its making. Bending forward, he muttered, as if sharing a confidence: "You know, I always took such pleasure in hating that little shit of a bleeding heart. So I really hope he'll be happy with what I leave you, his _protégé_ -" His voice gurgled with laughter. "-as a heartfelt souvenir."

Suddenly he gripped Castiel's forearm, where the skin burned up as the whole sword lit up, as if set aflame. The knight tried to jerk his hand back but the demon held tight, grinning. The metal started to crack, the grace seeping through until it exploded in a flash of pure white light. The blade disintegrated, liberating the power that had been bestowed upon it. It rushed through Alastair, destroying the darkness in him, annihilating his very nature. Then just as suddenly it was gone. The demon's body collapsed to the ground.

Castiel stumbled back, blinking, left hand clutching his right arm as what was left of the sword clattered to the ground. His skin was still burning like in the aftermath of a poisoned bite, and a low throb of pain resounded through the bone all the way up to his elbow and shoulder. Chest heaving, he stared down at the demon lying on the ground with his eyes wide open, filled with fright. He glanced back at Meg and Bobby, who'd remained near the doorway as the scene unfolded. Meg was still smiling, looking positively entertained, while the man beside her was barely refraining from gaping.

In the renewed silence of the room, a faint whimper was heard. At once Castiel forgot about his smarting arm and his head snapped towards Dean. He rushed to him, drawing out his knife to cut through the rope binding his wrists to the wheel of metal.

"I'd start with the feet, Little Squire," Meg commented as she stepped closer, Bobby in tow.

In that second Dean's first arm came free, making him sag with a garbled cry as the movement pulled on his other wrist. Castiel hurried to cut the rope around his ankles and straightened to catch him, take some of his weight. Dean tensed as soon as the knight's hand came into contact with his back, letting out a muffled "no" and blindly, sluggishly trying to get away. A glance was all Castiel needed to know why: while Alastair had repaired the hunter's front, he'd left his shoulders and back unhealed. It was a canvas of shredded, raw skin, of spots where it was missing entirely, leaving the flesh bare, of cuts that ranged from shallow to bone deep. The whole was varnished with a mixture of sweat and blood that had made it stick to the metal to which Dean had been bound, so that every twitch, every shudder had been all the more excruciating. Freeing him had felt like just another tearing. Of course he'd attempt to fight it, ready to beg for a little bit of respite.

Castiel shushed him as soon as he heard the first _please_ , his heart squeezing in his chest to the point of breaking at seeing the proud hunter reduced to this. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw Bobby standing beside the wheel, deftly unbinding the last rope. The man met his gaze, his face horrified and rueful, and the binding came loose. Dean collapsed against the knight entirely. Castiel hastily put his knife back in its sheath and stumbled under the sheer weight of his limp body, hands flailing for a second since he didn't know where to put them without hurting his companion further. He found spots where the hunter appeared unscathed, under his arms and at his waist, held him there and found his footing.

"Dean?" he called softly.

The hunter didn't answer, panting against the knight's shoulder. He'd stopped struggling though, leaning heavily against Castiel, without it being clear if he was doing it out of trust or sheer exhaustion.

The knight took advantage of that quiet moment to check the man's injuries, looking at him and prodding him as gently as he could. He obviously had several cracked ribs on top of the lacerations running alongside them; his left knee was swollen, either sprained or dislocated; several of his nails had been torn away, a couple of fingers broken; the palm of his hands had been slashed at every knuckle and the soles of his feet cut through, as if to punish him or discourage him from trying to fight back or escape. His face had been left alone, apart from the thin cut Alastair had drawn moments before, as well as his genitals. Realizing once more that the hunter had been divested of all his clothing and possessions, Castiel took away his left arm to unclasp his cloak where it was bound at his throat. He caught it as it fell and clumsily tried to drape it around Dean's shoulders, for modesty's sake. Bobby stepped closer to help, still pale and mute, carefully laying the fabric down so as to prevent it from rubbing against the numerous wounds criss-crossing the hunter's back.

Just as he stepped back a voice let itself be heard from the entrance of the room. A familiar voice.

"What. Is the meaning. Of this."

Castiel's head snapped up and he saw none other than the King of Hell himself, stiffly standing in the doorway, lips pressed into a tight, furious line.

"Explain this to me," he said, gesturing at the room, the turned-over table, the broken utensils, Alastair's body spread out among the countless blades he'd enjoyed so much. "Because from where I stand, _this_ looks like a breach of contract. I welcome you, give you what you need, and in exchange you kill one of my best men?"

His voice rose to a shout towards the end, making the demons accompanying him flinch—apart from Meg, who snorted and earned herself a glare. When the King looked back at Castiel, the knight defiantly held his gaze. He secured his hold around Dean's waist, made sure that the hunter's arm was properly slung over his shoulder so that he'd be able to move him when needed.

Dean let out an interrogative sound, eyes fluttering, and frowned as his nose came in contact with the coat draped over him, taking in the now familiar smell.

"Cas?" he asked, voice weak and raw.

"I'm here," the knight replied at once, briefly tightening his hold, his eyes never leaving the King's.

"Now," the demon said, realizing Castiel wouldn't show any sign of repentance for slaying Alastair. "I was ready to let you go. After all, I'm all for delegation and making others to the dirty work in my stead. But make no mistakes: I am the King of Hell. I can take care of this whole Leviathan mess without you puny humans. So really, making sure you don't ever get out of my realm and understand what it means to be trapped here after having incurred my wrath is not that much of a bother."

Castiel gritted his teeth, flexing his knees and putting a hand on the handle of his knife, his only remaining weapon, all the while trying not to let Dean slip—Dean who was resting his cheek against the knight's shoulder, smiling faintly and mumbling: "'Was starin' t'think you wouldn't come f'me. Nice timin'."

The knight felt his throat tighten at the obvious relief in the hunter's voice, keenly aware of how dire their situation was. It was highly improbable that he'd manage to fight back and defend Dean at the same time, that they'd manage to escape. The faint, satisfied smile on the King's lips was a clear sign that the demon knew it and was enjoying his distress.

"Let's start, shall we?" he said.

He emitted a sharp, melodious whistle and a couple of seconds later the demons standing beside and behind him hastily stepped back, gluing themselves to the walls in order to let in… something.

"Meet Growly," the King said.

Castiel couldn't see it, could only make out a faint shimmer in the air, but he could hear it. The creature's growl was deep and continuous, the threat of a huge beast that dwarfed any monster they'd come across in Purgatory, made every single one of them sound harmless in comparison. Castiel's hair stood on end and he unwittingly took a step back, hand clutching the handle of his knife but not drawing it again yet. He preferred to keep it inside its sheath for as long as possible, where it couldn't get knocked out of his grip by an invisible blow.

He narrowed his eyes at the nearly imperceptible blur betraying the creature's location, knowing that the second it attacked he wouldn't be able to follow any of its movements. It prowled in front of its master, waiting for a sign or an opening, still emitting that low, rasping growl that didn't sound like anything Castiel had ever encountered and faintly echoed off the stone. It underlined the limits of the room, the wall at the knight's back, the fact that the only exit was behind the King and that it wouldn't even enable them to escape, only lead them to another chamber, another corridor. Even there it would only be a matter of time before the monster caught up to them and tore them apart.

He was so focused on it that he didn't notice that the noise and his own movement backwards had drawn Dean out of the fog numbing his mind, had brought his attention to what was happening. The hunter painstakingly opened his eyes and saw everything.

"That's a Hell hound," he whispered.

Castiel glanced at him in surprise, a feeling that turned into dread when he saw the sheer terror buried deep in the hunter's eye, when noticed how tightly the man was now clutching his forearm.

The hound barked, sudden and loud like thunder, making everyone but the King startle. It coiled in on itself, ready to bounce, and Dean's grip on Castiel tightened to the point of being painful as he instinctively got ready to push the knight out of the way, convinced the beast was after him first and foremost. But in the second it darted forward, a body threw itself between it and its prey—Bobby.

The hound screeched to a halt with another, angry bark. Both Dean and Castiel blinked, holding onto each other. Bobby glanced back at them, the look in his eyes as frightened and surprised at his own actions as they were. He met Castiel's gaze, then Dean's, his expression softening for a second. He took a breath, squared his shoulders and turned back around, firmly planting his feet on the ground to show he wasn't willing to budge.

The King of Hell had had the time to recover and only scoffed at the determined look on Bobby's face. "How cute, Robert," he spat. "But ultimately useless."

He raised a hand and nonchalantly flicked it, fully expecting his prisoner to be slung out of the way.

Nothing happened.

The King repeated the gesture, with as little success as the first time. Several demons were blinking, others gaping. Meg was grinning in delight. Even Growly had stopped growling, taken aback by his master's sudden impotency. The demon moved his hand a third time, face reddening in irritation. Bobby, still as immovable as before, glanced back at Dean and Castiel once more, sharing their incredulity. In that second Dean's mouth parted as his eyes widened and darted towards Bobby's hands. When the man looked down he saw them starting to glow. His whole body was being surrounded in a faint veil of light. It felt warm and soft on his skin, a pleasant sensation so long forgotten that it made him gasp and understand at once what was happening.

"Looks like I just bought myself a one way trip to the highest tower in the castle," he said. Over the King's answering protests—"Oh no, you haven't, you can't, I _forbid it_."—he turned back towards the hunter and the knight, reaching out an arm.

"Quick, take my hand," he urged. "With a little bit of luck, it'll let you come along for the ride."

"Isn't that going to hold you back?" Castiel asked worriedly even as Dean tugged him forward without question.

Bobby only shrugged. "Only one way to know."

The light was growing stronger, accompanied by a distant sound like a whistle coming closer, becoming shriller. It made them squint and flinch, covered the rising voice of the King as he ordered his hound to attack, quickly, _now_. But the beast was running in circles and cowering to the ground, distressed by what was happening, blinded by the light. Eyes closed, Dean and Castiel felt their hands close around Bobby's proffered arm a second before it sharply rose, tugging them along with it. Up and up they went, feeling things rush past them but not daring open their eyes or strain their ears to hear what was happening beyond the shrill sound still surrounding them.

Suddenly they felt their grip fail, their palms slip until they were violently torn away. With a gasp they fell, three feet, six feet. But when they hit the ground it wasn't among tormented soul, it wasn't at the bottom of a deep pit. They landed on grass, thick and soft and cool. Dean cried out in pain and Castiel had his breath knocked out of him but they were alive.

For a second all they could do was blink.

What they were staring up at, they noticed after a while, was the night sky, dotted with vivid stars and streaked with a cloud of light billowing higher and higher: Bobby's soul continuing on its way towards Heaven. As for them, two humans weighted down by their earthly bodies, they hadn't been able to follow that far.

They'd simply come back to Earth.

Around them tall trees loomed, their leaves rustling in the light breeze, their fragrance spreading throughout the undergrowth. In the distance they could hear a brook merrily running and the deep, clear hoot of a couple of owls.

They lay for a long time, each with one arm wrapped around the other's waist or shoulder, unable to move, reeling and incredulous. But for the first time in a long time, they also felt safe and at home. As the stars turned overhead, old and familiar, the beating of their hearts quietened, their breathing slowed, their bodies sank deeper into the sweetly scented carpet of grass.

Without quite noticing it, they fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you have any questions or wanna come say hi :)


	6. Over the Plains of Wanck-dor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** for mentions of torture, blood, seizures and probably inaccurate decription of old medical procedures.
> 
> Also, we're back on earth so this marks [the return of the map](http://i1140.photobucket.com/albums/n576/galwithglasses/811/SPN_0657_zps6e6d24fe.jpg) if you need it.

Castiel was the first to wake up the following morning. It happened suddenly, a jump from the deepest unconsciousness to the clearest awareness, so swift he suspected he'd passed out more than fallen asleep.

Birds were singing, a cacophony of joyous sounds, and when he blinked his eyes open he had to squint against the bright light slanting through the trees. He stared at the green leaves and at the azure sky for the longest time, until he understood the reason for his disorientation: it had been a long time since he'd seen such bright colors, apart from the deep red of blood.

He sat up. In the distance, a deer flicked its ears in his direction and deftly hopped away. The knight watched it disappear between the bushes and looked around, almost unsettled by how lush and full of life the forest was, especially when he remembered the one he'd ceaselessly wandered through in Purgatory. Something else was nagging at the back of his mind, but a small sound brought his attention away from his pondering and down. Dean was lying beside him, still asleep, but also shivering and slightly spasming. His skin was covered in sweat. As he took in the hunter's numerous wounds, which were red, swollen and smeared with dried blood, Castiel felt any leftover sleepiness and quiet evaporate. Everything that had happened came back to him in a rush.

He checked Dean's temperature by pressing a hand to his forehead and found him burning up. The hunter didn't regain consciousness when the knight called his name, tapped him lightly on the cheek. He simply frowned in discomfort and tried to turn his head away. He'd started panting, his breathing sounding more labored by the second. Castiel called his name a second, a third time, still without success.

Biting his lips he straightened up and looked around, feeling at a loss for what to do. He could feel his heart beating strong and nervous in his chest; he made himself breathe out slowly to keep a clear head. The forest was deserted, apart from the birds singing in the trees and flapping from one branch to the next. Beyond them he could hear the merry gurgle of a stream.

After checking on Dean one last time he stood up and went to find it, hoping nothing would happen to his companion in the meantime. As he walked he frequently glanced back over his shoulder. The hunter remained prone and nothing else showed up, but Castiel kept checking. He was so preoccupied by it, actually, that he nearly fell right into the brook when he stumbled upon it while he wasn't looking. His foot slipped on its muddy bank, he flailed and luckily caught himself against a nearby trunk.

The water ran smoothly, splashing from stone to stone, meandering between roots and tufts of grass then curving around a cluster of lilac trees. Castiel tore up the bottom of his tunic and crouched down beside it. He folded the strip of fabric, reached out a hand to dip it into the water—and froze right before he made contact.

He stared down at the river, so pure and see-through you could count the pebbles lying at the bottom. He remembered the quest they were on, remembered how it had all started. He remembered the first refugees, the events reported by the mother of the huntress Joanna, tales of people falling sick after drinking from the stream, which had been corrupted unbeknownst to them; of children growing listless after bathing in it, like their life force had been drained and carried away by the current. He remembered the hollowness in the woman's eyes, the loss, the confusion and betrayal she couldn't put into words.

It had taken days for them to suspect it might come from the water. They'd only come to that realization because the old cherry tree that stood at the edge of the market place at the center of the village, throwing its shadow over the bridge and drinking directly from the stream, had lost all its foliage overnight. Its leaves, which usually took all autumn to turn from green to yellow to red, had dried up to a dull brown veined with black and collapsed all at once, something that had never happened as far as memory reached. The river itself hadn't looked any different. Its water hadn't darkened nor had it changed in taste. There had been absolutely no sign, no warning, no way to know.

Just like Castiel had no way to know now if the brook was contaminated or not. But if it was and if he used its water to clean Dean's wounds, it could only worsen the situation. It might even be deadly.

He deliberated for a long time, frowning and twisting the piece of cloth between his hands. The only conclusion he managed to reach was that he needed to consult Dean. Standing back up, he returned to the hunter, hoping he might be wakened.

There was no need for it. Dean's breathing was still short and rasping, but his eyes were open. They flitted this way and that, taking in his surroundings, the trees and the sky beyond, darting to the side to catch a bird as it took flight, sliding back to the leaves swaying and flickering with sunlight. But even as they did they held a remote look in them, a wistful veil, for that display, instead of bringing relief and joy to their owner after the cold of the mountains, after Purgatory and Hell, made him incredibly sad.

He heard Castiel approach and tilted his head in the knight's direction, his face lighting up when he caught sight of him.

"Hey, Cas," he said with a smile. His voice was hoarse, strained by the screams the knight hadn't been there to hear and dried by a deep thirst. It was yet another reason why Castiel felt water was needed.

"Dean," he said, kneeling beside the hunter. He was ready to ask if Dean had any idea about how to determine if the brook was corrupted or not, but already the other man's gaze had wandered away, back to the canopy where a blackbird had started singing, hidden between the branches. He was still smiling faintly, but the curve of his lips had nothing to do with the happy grin that uncovered his teeth and made his whole face glow, or even with the amused, crooked smirk that dug a small dimple into his left cheek. It was distant and bittersweet.

"Look at that," he mumbled, eyes roving over the trees and briefly coming back to Castiel. "It's spring."

"That's impossible," the knight automatically replied. "We weren't gone that long."

Now that he was back on Earth, it felt like it had only been a couple of weeks since they'd set off. But even as he spoke he felt doubt creep up on him. He remembered Purgatory, remembered how it had felt, like he'd been there forever, like he was going to be there forever. He remembered how different Dean had perceived their time there. As for Hell…

"Weren't we?" Dean asked just as Castiel realized that he had no idea how long to evaluate the time he'd spent in the pit. The hunter's smile faded and his eyes glazed over, sinking into memories of what he'd seen and been subjected to. He still wasn't quite sure it was over. After all, Alastair had taken pleasure in messing with his mind as much as with his body. "It felt like years."

Castiel didn't notice he'd reached out a hand until it made contact with Dean's shoulder, squeezing it in support even though he was aware of how little good it made. The hunter threw him a glance, twitched a smile, but rapidly turned away, unwilling to let the knight see the look in his eyes, the lingering pain and terror that ran in tremors through his limbs and soul. Castiel didn't force him to meet his gaze and instead raised his head.

He looked at the forest around them and noticed what Dean had seen, what had been nagging at the back of his mind since he'd woken up. The nature around them was in full bloom. The grass was springing up from the dark earth, the ferns unrolling their stems, the flowers unraveling their petals in a riot of white, yellow and pale pink. The tender green of young leaves sprouted on every branch, new moss came to cover old bark. The first butterflies and bees were already buzzing around, hard at work. On the riverbank, the white and violet bunches of the lilac trees were so numerous and heavy that they bent them towards the stream, spread their perfumes all around. What little the travelers could see from the sky was of that pale blue that came after a long storm or an even longer night. The clear sunlight fell in patches, making the dew gathered on the forest ground sparkle like jewels. And over the murmur of the water and the faint buzzing of countless insects, the birds kept singing, calling to each other and answering, the same birds that Dean and Castiel had seen flying southwards in whole flocks when they'd left the castle of Moondoor.

It _was_ spring.

"We have to hurry," Castiel said, feeling a weight like a stone fall onto his stomach. They had to get out of these woods in order to determine where they were and make the long journey back home. It would be slow, especially with Dean's injuries. Plus, there was no saying how far away they were from the closest populated area, where they could find mounts—let alone from the castle. There wasn't any guarantee that they were even in the kingdom itself.

Or in what state the country was, after at least a whole winter. If not more.

Pushing that last dreadful thought aside, Castiel turned back to the hunter with a renewed sense of urgency. "Dean, I have to clean your wounds," he said, almost stumbling over his words in his haste. "There is a brook-"

"Whoa, easy there," Dean cut him off. For a second his eyes sparkled with faint amusement. "No need to fret. It's no use."

Castiel breathed out harshly. "Of course there is need. We have to go, _soon_ , and for that your wounds need to be cleaned and dressed, somehow, at least until we reach a place where someone can tend to them properly, and for that-"

"Cas," Dean interrupted once again, but this time his voice was so quiet, so soft, almost affectionate, that it gave the knight pause. "These aren't wounds that'll heal just like that. Alastair made sure of that. Took the time for it, too."

The knight only blinked, uncomprehending. The hunter sighed.

"I can feel it." His smile came back, sad and resigned. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Dean," Castiel said, trying to be reasonable. "I realize that you are hurt and need time to rest. But surely-"

"Cas. I can't walk. I can't even stand."

The knight grew quiet.

"I'm broken, Cas," Dean said, very gently. "I guess that this it, for me."

"No," Castiel retorted at once. This simply wasn't something he could accept.

He hadn't gotten Dean out of Hell for things to end like this.

"It's okay," the hunter said, reaching out a hand to put it on Castiel's. The knight snatched it away as if he'd been burned, rejecting the touch like he was rejecting the words. "Cas, honest, I'm okay with it. I always knew-" He coughed wetly, his throat clogging with phlegm and blood. "I always knew it'd end that way, with a hunt gone bad. That's all that ever was in the cards for me. And one hell of a hunt it was, wasn't it?" His feeble smirk turned into a wince followed by a sharp intake of breath, as he sustained another onslaught of pain. It dug into his back, spread through his entrails that felt like they'd been bruised and rearranged the wrong way. They probably had. The continuous, intense pain had often turned his torments into a white hot blur, but his body remembered every single second. "At least I'm back on good old Earth," he managed to say, patting the ground beside him. With a frown he added: "Sam better take good care of Impala, or I swear I'll haunt his ass."

"Dean," Castiel called softly, for all the bravado in the hunter's words didn't quite hide his fear, his regret. "Dean, look at me."

Dean was drifting away, eyes directed overhead, trying to catch sight of the birds flying and twirling as they sang at each other. They were so free, so light, their bodies young and strong and unharmed. They didn't recoil at the mere thought of moving, of letting themselves fall, trusting that the air would catch them. He envied them, almost.

When the knight called him again, he turned to him and forced a smile.

"Your eyes are like the sky," he whispered, voice hushed with wonder. "How come I've never noticed that before?"

His were like the moss covering the stones and roots around them, where the sun streaming through the foliage bathed them in light. And they were closing.

Castiel framed his face, his neck with his hands, tapping his cheek and feeling for a pulse. It took him far too long to find it, feeble and erratic. "Dean," he called. "Stay with me, Dean. Dean!"

He could feel the hunter slip between his fingers, sink under, out of reach. But he kept calling his name, couldn't stop. He squeezed his hand, his shoulder, palpated his sides and belly, looking for wounds he could've missed, for any sign of internal bleeding. His voice rose and rose, grew hoarse. He didn't even notice, didn't notice the birds cutting off their chants or flying away in a panicked flutter of wings, only preoccupied with one thought.

Dean couldn't die.

He couldn't, not here, not now. Not far away from all he'd known, from his family and friends, from the brother who was so dear to him. Not just as the completion of their quest was within reach. Not after Purgatory, not after _Hell_.

Not after they had, by some miracle, pulled through. They'd been lost and parted and afraid, they'd known despair and pain and horror, but they'd kept fighting and now they were back on Earth, with the three vials of blood for which they'd gone searching, and they'd arrived here alive. That was the whole point, them, the _both_ of them, being alive.

That was why Dean had looked for Castiel in Purgatory, why Castiel had looked for Dean in Hell. They'd both realized that they couldn't go on on their own. _Castiel_ had realized that he couldn't, still felt like he couldn't now, even though they were back on Earth. He might still have his clothes and his knife, but down to his core he was as naked and worn down as the hunter. He was still rattled by what Purgatory had made of him, had only made it out of there by clinging to the faith Dean had in him, by the faith he had in Dean. If Dean fell now at that last hurdle, how could Castiel believe that he wouldn't either? How could he try to find his way back to the castle and even think he might not fail?

So he called Dean's name, the short syllable encompassing everything he felt even if his mind couldn't parse it—panic and doubt, care and fear, frustration and despair. His voice broke and left him panting, squeezing his eyes shut and only letting out a last whisper, a choked _please_ , without quite knowing if he was addressing the hunter or another entity of whom he knew he shouldn't be asking anything.

"Dear God, will you shut up?" a voice snapped. Castiel tensed, straightened and whirled around, hand clutching the handle of his knife. Several feet away stood an old man, a recluse by the looks of it. His skin was dark and scarred, his mustache messy and streaked with gray, his clothes threadbare and wrinkled. The look in his eyes was slightly crazed, but he wasn't aggressive, simply annoyed and wary. "You're making the wild flee, you imbecile."

Had this happened in any other situation, Castiel would've been incensed at being addressed in such a familiar, disrespectful manner. But right now there were more pressing matters and he barely noticed.

"Please, do you have herbs, do you know any medicine? My friend needs help, he's been hurt, he-"

The man leaned to the side, trying to get a clearer look at Dean around the knight. "What happened to that fellow?" he asked. "Looks like he's been chewed by a skinwalker and spat out bloody when it found he wasn't to its taste."

"He's been tortured," Castiel admitted, feeling that it was necessary for the man to be aware of the seriousness of the situation. "I don't know for how long."

At the word of torture the old man's look sharpened. "Orcs did this? They've been getting up to all kind of crazies as of late, what with the mess going on around here. I don't know if they think it makes them kings or if they're simply panicking because it's been affecting them too."

"Can you help him?" Castiel asked again, feeling the man's attention straying when he needed it focused on the matter at hand.

The man stared at him for several long seconds. "Do I look like I'm here to help you?" he finally asked, waving around the short spear he was carrying. Before Castiel could answer he went on: "No, I don't. So just shut up and let me hunt in peace."

"Please," Castiel insisted. "I'll give you anything."

The man's expression didn't change. "Do I look like I might need anything from _you_?"

The last word was almost scornfully spat while a gnarled hand gestured between them. The knight and the hunter probably made a pitiful sight even to a poor hermit—Dean injured, dirty and naked but for the tattered cloak he was lying on, Castiel in shirtsleeves under a torn tunic that had once been white but was now a mess of dried mud and blood steeped in yellowing sweat. The knight clasped around his pouches, trying to think of anything that could interest the man and realizing he hadn't anything left that was of any worth. His hand knocked against the handle of his knife and he paused.

He drew out the weapon, looked down at it, hesitated. He held it out.

"I have this. Surely you can never have enough weapons, leading the life you live."

Crouching slightly with his short spear still held up, the man slowly stepped closer, like he was approaching a wild beast. Once he judged he was close enough he tilted his head to better see what Castiel was offering.

The knight let him inspect it despite the pressing time, if only because he felt confident that the weapon would pass whatever test this was. It was a beautiful knife. It had to be; after all, it had been ordered by his mother, who always made sure things were carried out after her precise specifications and never spared any expense. The blade was solid and sharp, hardly marred by any indentation or scratch even after years of use. The handle was wrapped in thick leather, allowing for a comfortable grip, its flat end engraved with the Novak family crest. The short guard was encrusted with small jewels. As Naomi had wanted it, it was at the same time elegant and lethal.

It had been Castiel's since he'd turned fifteen. Only one other existed, absolutely identical; it belonged to his brother James, who had received it the same day.

But in spite of all the worth Castiel attributed to it—as a precious object, as a good weapon, as a family heirloom—the man squinted at it for such a long time that he himself began to doubt it would be enough. But suddenly the man shrugged.

"Yeah, okay," he said, like the knight was driving a hard bargain.

He lowered his spear and before Castiel could react he'd snatched the knife away and slid it snug under the leather strap bound around his waist. He stepped forward, gesturing towards Dean.

"Okay," he repeated. "Help me carry him, the cabin ain't far."

Dean didn't wake when they heaved him up, each slinging one of his arms around their shoulders, but the movement made him huff out a whistling breath.

"They sure did a number on him," the old man commented when he saw how carefully the knight wrapped an arm around the hunter's waist to stabilize and support him, when he saw why he was taking such precautions. He didn't expect any explanation so Castiel didn't provide one, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and carrying Dean high enough so at to prevent his feet from dragging against the ground too much.

Despite what the man had assured him, the way to his cabin felt like an eternity. Castiel couldn't help but regularly press a hand to Dean's chest, over his heart where his tattoo was, checking his heartbeat. It was still there, still too feeble and irregular, the wild flapping of a panicked bird struggling against the bars if its cage. It kept the knight stubbornly carrying the hunter forward, until finally they reached the recluse's lodgings.

It was a ramshackle wooden hut, covered in moss and lichen and leaning slightly askew, like it was waiting for the gust that would make it crumble into a pile of splinters. The best-kept part of the whole picture was the small cart waiting upfront, its two poles digging into the earth between its two large wheels. Its owner used it to carry goods from his place to the nearest village or market town, pulling it behind himself through the woods, along narrow paths and across grassy plains to exchange furs, skins and wood against what little he needed to live.

"Here it is," the old man said with a proud smile. "Old Rufus' cabin."

He then proceeded to kick the door open, nearly throwing it off its hinges.

The cabin was larger than it appeared from the outside, but so cluttered that there was barely any room to move around. Nearly a quarter of the space was taken up by the chimney and surrounding kitchen, which looked more like the workplace of a forge than a place where one could cook. It comprised several shelves, two tables, a chair and a small dresser, all filled or covered with herbs, pots and jars. Fire and cooking instruments were hanging off several metal racks, while several cauldrons stood piled up in a corner. Another corner was occupied by a rickety bed, beside which two chairs disappeared under old pieces of fabric. The rest of the walls were taken up by more shelves, a large dresser and stretched skins and furs hanged to dry. They were also lined by a couple of chests, crates and wood pieces. Drying herbs hung from the ceiling, several shirts and coats from the hooks affixed to the door, along with several rusted weapons. In the middle of the room stood a heavy table surrounded by several chairs, its surface disappearing under balls of string, piles of herbs needing to be bound into bunches, knives and short swords, a small crate filled with the first cherries and another one with roots.

The old man—Rufus—made a beeline for it, shuffling most of the mess into the crates before carrying them away to put them on one of the chests. Once the table was cleared he gestured at Castiel to bring Dean over and helped him heave the hunter upon it once they'd taken the ruined blue cloak off his shoulders. Dean let out a muffled gasp as he settled, then quietened again.

Rufus set to work.

He rekindled the fire, filled a pot with water from a large jug and hung it to the metal hook so it hovered over the growing flames. Armed with a knife and wooden spoon, he started barking orders for Castiel to follow, asking for herbs and roots as if he expected the knight to know them all and to be able to find them at once among the jars, bunches, cabinets and crates. It didn't last long before he noticed his guest's inefficiency, by which point he told him to take a jug of water and a piece of cloth from a box in the dresser, and to start by cleaning Dean's skin.

"It's safe," he added when he noticed Castiel's automatic hesitation. "It's been tested and treated, so go on now."

Wondering what the man meant by that, Castiel obeyed. Was Rufus talking about the usual precautions one took before using water in medicine, such as boiling it, eventually with certain herbs? he asked himself as he washed his hands and forearms, then found a hollow dish and filled it with water. Or was he talking about something else, something worse—about the poison the Leviathans spread? If so, it meant that the situation had much worsened since he and Dean had set off, that the plague had spread enough to reach even the most isolated parts of the kingdom. Rufus had mentioned Orcs, which made Castiel assume that they'd landed back on Earth around the utmost western borders, that area of thick woods and rocky hills that had been a bone of contention between both peoples for decades if not more.

But if Rufus was referring to that evil, his assurance also meant that there was a way to stave it off, to purify contaminated waters. In that case, it was possible that the situation wasn't so dire, that the inhabitants of Moondoor had been able to hold on up until now, until Castiel and Dean fulfilled their quest.

All the knight had to do was to make sure that they did.

So he didn't ask any question, didn't break Rufus' concentration as the old man cut roots into thin slices and added it to the boiling water before sprinkling it with the crushed petals of several dried flowers, all along muttering under his breath. He simply brought the box the old man had pointed out to him over to the table. Inside of it he found piles and rows of carefully folded stripes and patches of fabric, some thick, some so thin they were almost see-through. From the clean smell of them, it was clear that they'd been boiled in water with several twigs of thyme, then put away for medical use. Castiel gingerly took a piece out before closing the box, dipped it into the water and used it to wipe away the blood, dirt and sweat marring Dean's skin. He didn't insist too much on the inflammations, guessing that the thin concoction Rufus was preparing would serve to disinfect them more thoroughly.

He was right. Soon the old man set the pot aside to cool and started on another, thicker mixture after muttering at Castiel to _get on with these wounds_.

The knight waited until the liquid was lukewarm to the touch before taking out several swaths of tissue and wetting them. He started to gently dab at Dean's wounds. He took his time, especially for the cuts and burns littering his back. More than once the hunter tensed and whimpered, twitched and half-consciously tried to move away from the touch. Every time Castiel hushed him and apologized softly, but kept on. He even felt bolstered by those reactions, which showed that Dean was still there, still alive, still feeling and fighting.

By the time he finished Rufus had come to throw a glance over his shoulder twice, and gone back to the fire to prepare other blends. Before the knight could roll the hunter, which he'd propped on his side, back into his initial position, the old man went to fetch a clean sheet out of a drawer. He draped it over the free half of the table, then helped Castiel settle his companion onto it, before tugging the fabric until the whole wooden surface was covered. Once they'd smoothed out the wrinkles he cleaned his hands, brought over his preparations and a small sewing kit, drew the box of bandages closer and set to work.

He mostly didn't need Castiel's help, apart from when he had to move Dean. Once or twice the knight had to hold the hunter still, like when Rufus deftly sewed the deep cuts on his thigh and ribs shut, but otherwise he could only sit and watch the old man apply poultices and compresses, then dress one wound after the other, hoping to stop threatening infections and encourage the skin to close itself and heal. He quietly admired his skills, the smoothness and assuredness of his gestures, like he'd done this a thousand times, sometimes in much worse conditions.

He probably had, often on himself.

The knight knew the kind of people to which Rufus belonged. They played a vital part in defending the borders of the realm, unbeknownst to most. Descendants of old families, they stubbornly clung to the plots of land that had belonged to their fathers or mothers, no matter how small or infertile they could be. By their sheer attachment to the place in which they'd been born, by their unwillingness to give up but an inch of ground, they slowed down the Orcs' progress eastwards. They were the men and women of a secret war, knowledgeable in traps and poisons, escapes and remedies. No one better than them could remain unnoticed or take out a whole group of enemies from a distance, without running any risk of being caught or wounded. It made them into fearsome adversaries, but often isolated, aging, clinging to their weapons and habitations like to the last shreds of their sanity. Orcs weren't able to defeat them, but time would. It had already begun.

For that very reason, many missions of the knights consisted in trying to find them and help them, as part of their efforts to push back the Orcs and secure the borders. Yet far too often they arrived too late, happened upon nothing but a burnt farm or a nameless, decaying body which they could only thank and reward with belated funeral honors.

Rufus was trying to wrap bandages on Dean's ruined soles when he remarked:

"This ain't no Orc's work. The guy who did this was plain sick. He did it for pleasure, not info."

He threw a look in Castiel's direction, but the knight remained impassible, refusing to answer the implicit question. Rufus noticed the expression deep in his eyes, though, the grim shadow of something he couldn't understand but recognized anyway. He didn't press the matter and went back to the bandages he was applying.

Once he was finished they propped Dean's head on a folded shirt and covered him with a blanket. Rufus prepared an infusion of willow bark and several other plants which he gave him to drink. Dean's eyes fluttered when he felt the warm liquid on his lips. He swallowed without further encouragement.

After that they waited.

Throughout what was left of the day the old man checked the hunter's pulse, the width of his pupils, gave him small bowls of infusion to drink. At first Dean sunk into a quiet sleep, into what looked like refreshing rest, lying heavy and still on the table. But when night came, faint tremors started to agitate his limbs once more, shivers from cold or pain. Rufus changed several of his bandages, gave him more to drink. The expression on his face was focused and quiet, not overtly worried. A fever was to be expected as the patient's body struggled against the risk of infection, recovered its balance after the blood loss. What unnerved him most, actually, was the knight's unwavering attention, his gaze following his every gesture.

He offered Castiel his bed, determined not to take no for an answer. The knight understood it by the mere tone of the old man's voice and, feeling too weary to protest, laid down to try and catch a little bit of sleep. The old man remained sitting near the table, still giving Dean to drink from time to time, surveilling his general state, waiting for the fever to break.

 

*

 

Despite his exhaustion and best efforts, Castiel managed nothing more than an agitated slumber. He dozed in patches saturated with visions and echoes from Hell—the cries and supplications of tormented souls, the pain and fear, the aftertaste of sulphur—only this time it wasn't strangers he saw on the rack and heard in the throes of despair: it was his comrades, it was his young squire Samandriel, it was even his Queen, once. It was Dean.

Every time he opened his eyes with a gasp on his lips, a frozen breath in his lungs and a dull throb in his right arm. The ache leftover from his confrontation with Alastair had spread from his forearm to his elbow, creeping higher the longer he lay. His head felt heavy, his throat parched. He stood up to fetch a bowl of water and downed it, but it didn't make him feel any better. It didn't help him fall asleep.

Dean was growing more agitated.

By the time the night had reached its coldest hour, the knight had given up on sleep. He sat on the uncomfortable bed, absently massaging his right arm as he stared at his companion. No matter how much he wished for it, the hunter wasn't getting better. He'd started panting again, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat that soaked through his bandages, forcing Rufus to replace them several times. His eyes kept fluttering, his heart beating, stronger now but still erratic. The old man kept on giving him his infusion, quiet and patient. He started applying a cloth dipped into cold water on his forehead, the side of his neck.

Dawn came. The fever broke.

Dean kept spasming.

He seized once, twice, and his eyes opened, wide but unseeing, revealing bloodshot whites and pinpoint pupils as he let out a faint rattle. Rufus watched him struggle for breath with a deep frown and, once he'd settled back into an episodic tremble, the old man declared:

"I've never seen anything like it, but whoever did this to him poisoned him too. I don't know with what, but my guess is that it's well on its way to turning your pal here into one of that thing's species."

Castiel stared at him, feeling a white hot stab of horror dug through his entrails. Alastair's bloodied grin flickered in front of his eyes, his sweet tone and insidious laugh rang in his ears. And suddenly the demon's face, its voice melted and morphed into Dean's, into a malevolent smirk before green irises turned black.

_No_.

"Is there anything you can do to prevent it?" the knight asked faintly.

He couldn't bear the thought of Dean turning into a demon. Of having to trap him, kill him. He didn't even know if that was feasible without an angel's grace. All he'd ever heard of were exorcisms, spells designed to send such serpents back to Hell.

Castiel would not, _could_ not, send Dean back there.

Rufus rolled his eyes. "Do I look like an Elf to you? I might know a lot of things about a lot of things, but I'm no expert. Wounds like that, it's better for you to die before they turn you. I should've known and left you out there to rot."

Castiel didn't pay any attention to the old man's disgruntlement and clung to the first thing he'd said. "Are you saying that Elves could help him?"

"What can't they do?" Rufus replied with a shrug. "Too bad they're hidden in their bloody forest on the other side of the kingdom, beyond the border. And they don't take too kindly to strangers."

"Maybe we don't need to go that far."

Indeed, it was possible that the Elves that had followed Jessica of the Moors were still at the castle of Moondoor, helping Sam decipher the manuscripts for the spell they needed, working with the Queen to organize a resistance against the Leviathans. Castiel felt his heart pick up with hope and stood up. "We need to go to the castle."

Rufus threw him a pitying look. "Boy, you don't have nearly enough time. Whatever's running through that guy's veins is vicious. He's fighting it, sure, but even the stubbornest and strongest of men can only make their bodies hold on for so long. I've seen men tall as mountains, wise as old times turn into monsters in a matter of minutes. And once it's done, there's no going back. There's nothing to do but put them down, and hope they have enough leftover shreds of humanity in their twisted heart to _let_ you."

"No," Castiel retorted vehemently. "It can't end like this. I won't let it."

He looked down at Dean and ran a hand along the hunter's damp hairline, feeling the clammy skin under his palm. Dean let out a huff, throat and belly convulsing. Castiel found himself wishing he still had his sword, still had the fragment of grace his angel with which had infused it during the knighting ceremony. Maybe if he'd had it, and they'd found a way to extract it, they could've used it as a cure. Maybe it would've helped.

But it _had_ helped already, and Castiel couldn't regret how he'd used it in Hell.

Deep in these circling, vain thoughts he didn't notice the old man watching him, watching his proud posture, the desperately determined look in his eyes, listening to the echoes of his strong voice and understanding far more about both his guests than anyone could've expected of an old recluse whose sanity was slowly but surely dwindling. He understood that there were things at stake here, large things, larger than himself, larger than the two men he'd taken in.

"There might be a way," he said with circumspection.

Castiel looked up at once, demanding an explanation without needing to utter a single word.

"I can stop the infection and poison's progress, or rather, slow it down. It's a potion, another poison, of sorts, although I know the remedy. It will slow down all his bodily functions—breathing, digestion, blood flow, _everything_ —so that whatever's happening to him will do the same. It'll all slow down and down and down, until it stops completely. Unless," he added, raising his index finger. "You have the antidote, which I can prepare for you, and give it to him on time. It's risky, but it can give you the time you need."

Castiel nodded slowly.

"You sure?" Rufus insisted.

The knight answered with a sad smile: "Do I have a choice?"

The old man shrugged, conceding the point.

The following hours were a flurry of activity. Rufus set about to preparing the potion and its remedy, rushing this way and that to fetch the ingredients he needed, which he grated, crushed, hacked. He mixed them, boiled them, pressed them, boiled them again, filtered the result once, added several pinches of three different powders, cooked it, filtered it… He moved so fast that Castiel soon lost track of his doings and retreated back to the bed. He sat on it, out of the way, and opted for asking for details about how the brew would work: how long it would take for Dean's heart to stop for good, how late into the process he could wait until he _had_ to administer the antidote, what he would have to do to help Dean's body pick its usual rhythm back up, especially concerning his digestive tract and the circulation in his extremities.

Rufus answered, but most of it was vague or uncertain because of Dean's already weakened state and because he'd never used that poison with no intent of letting it run its whole course, that is to say kill its target. That usually took about a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. Rufus also gave enough information on the whereabouts of his cabin for the knight to roughly determine where they were and how long it would take to reach the castle of Moondoor. Castiel evaluated the trip to five days going at a regular but rapid pace—on horseback.

"You will need a horse, yeah," Rufus confirmed absently, like it was obvious and unproblematic.

As the sun crossed its zenith and strolled into afternoon, the old man brought his preparations to an end. He changed Dean's bandages and gave him a bit to drink one more time. He instructed Castiel to stir the two simmering pots at regular intervals and freshen the water compress cooling the hunter's brow, before he took a coat and left the cabin without a word of explanation.

He'd taken the Novak knife with him.

 

*

 

Rufus came back hours later, as the last of the day slithered away, cowering in front of the creeping dark. He was carrying two bags over his shoulders, along with a thick leather coat, several weapons and a saddle. Outside the cabin a horse could be heard, snorting and stomping its hooves against the ground before it settled and started to gnaw at the grass.

Castiel didn't ask where the old man had gotten all this. The execution and style of the weapons and clothes were easily recognizable as coming from the Orcs.

Dean was still in the same state, a little bit quieter maybe, letting out grunts every time a stronger spasm took over his chest, belly and arms. Castiel had kept giving him the infusion until it had run out, but had preferred to leave the dressing on his wounds alone. The first thing Rufus did was to take both pots out of the fire, grunting that all that was left was wait for their content to cool.

They didn't remain idle in the meantime. It soon became clear that the old man was expecting his guests to leave during the night. At first Castiel felt confused and hurt, before the explanation came in hints and sentences. The aim was for them to make their way out of the woods under the cover of darkness, Rufus mumbled while he gathered some provisions—stale bread, dried meat and a goatskin full of water—and put them into a worn bag. The Orc he'd slain would be missed, a party would be sent out for him and soon enough the undergrowth would be crawling with unfriendlies. Fortunately, they'd be headed right towards the cabin and the traps Rufus needed time alone to set up. With a little bit of luck Castiel and his friend would manage to slide past unnoticed.

With these last words he tightened the strings and bound the bag shut. There was still time before the potions had fully settled though, and he spent it by making himself a meal, which he shared with the knight.

It was the first time Castiel ate in… He couldn't even say how long. His last real meal had been before Hell, before Purgatory, back on Mount Neumandoor after the night that they'd spent in the Sorceress' ice cave. The idea of food hadn't even occurred to him. It was like he'd lost the reflex, lost the ability to recognize hunger. His stomach felt too tight, tied in anxious knots and every mouthful he had to force down. He politely refused a second bowl. Rufus reacted by sending him to bed, telling him to catch some sleep while he still could.

It made sense, so Castiel obeyed. He didn't have much more success than the night previous though. The dull pain in his arm grew sharper as soon as he closed his eyes and had nothing else to focus on. He managed a restless slumber, out of which he startled when Rufus brushed against his shoulder barely an hour later.

The last preparations didn't last long. The horse had already been readied outside. Rufus had replaced the bandages around Dean's broken fingers with splinters and applied thin plasters around his sprained knee and bruised ribs in preparation for the long ride. He'd also poured the antidote—a see-through, colorless liquid—in a vial which Castiel slipped into one of his pouches. With the knight's help, he made Dean straighten up enough to pass his head and arms through a thick shirt and to give him the debilitating potion, which had been waiting in a cup. The hunter swallowed reflexively, but never quite regained consciousness.

They had to carry him outside. At the light of a flickering lantern, Castiel slung the bag that Rufus had prepared for him over his shoulder and climbed first into the saddle. The horse was a sturdy brown beast, the kind Orcs favored, which made for good, enduring war mounts. Once he'd made sure that it wouldn't bolt, the knight hiked Dean up after him with Rufus' help. A couple minutes were necessary to properly settle the hunter in front of him, leaning against Castiel's torso in a way that wouldn't impede the knight but wouldn't let Dean slide off either. Feeling the added weight and recognizing the charged atmosphere preceding a departure, the horse pawed at the ground in impatience, but Castiel held it back with a firm gesture. He looked down at Rufus, whose face seemed old, battered and weary in the weak light of the torch, almost ghost-like.

"I can't thank you enough," the knight said, aware of what a measly reward such words were.

Rufus only shrugged. "Bah. You know, I wasn't even planning to go out that morning, and yet I did. Looks to me like I was meant to find you. And I'm keeping the knife."

He patted the hilt of the weapon sticking out from his belt. Castiel nodded without protest, letting go of the reins to undo the strap still holding the empty sheath to his belt. He held it out to the old recluse, who took it with a wry smile, and silently wished for the knife to be of use to him and to defend him during the trials ahead.

He straightened, took back hold of the reins and, with a last look at their host, dug his heels into the horse's sides. The mount eagerly pounced forward and disappeared through the trees at a light trot rapidly morphing into a gallop as it headed towards the East.

 

*

 

The first thing Castiel noticed, even before the first hints of dawn started to turn the horizon a pale pink and the world underneath grey, was that they were much further West than he'd first thought. The forest in which Rufus lived lay in the Shadow Hills instead of at their edge, growing in a basin watered by several small streams—a territory that Moondoor had lost a long time ago and upon which it had been forced to give up. Castiel—and by extension the Queen—had had no idea that there were still citizens of the realm dwelling there, although it was possible, even probable, that Rufus was an exception, a last vestige of an age now past.

It mostly meant that it'd take them at least half a day longer than expected to reach the castle. Castiel would have to push the horse, but also be careful about it, making it go from a trot to a canter to a slow pace with enough breaks in between for it to carry them all the way without collapsing under them or, worse, dying.

It also meant that the first portion of the journey would be more dangerous, until they crossed the border. They hadn't come across any Orcs while in the forest, but Castiel had heard their calls and outraged cries as they looked for the one they'd lost. He'd carefully followed the wild deers which he'd glimpsed as they fled the commotion. But now the day was coming and he'd left the trees behind, leaving him out in the open. He would have to be discreet and swift to avoid drawing attention, which would be fatal. He'd be outnumbered, didn't have any weapons left and most of all couldn't afford any delay.

Fortunately, the hills were a familiar territory for the horse. It was used to uneven grounds, didn't have any problem clambering over rocks and among dry thorns. Plus, its former rider had been an Orc, often traveling in full gear. Two grown men with little to no equipment were no challenge for a mount used to carrying a much larger and heavier creature with a metal armor, several weapons and full saddlebags.

The Shadow Hills had formed on a wide plateau that stretched from the fjords of Wen-Findlay in the South to the mountain range of Mount Mordorg in the North, and that defined the borderland between the kingdom of Moondoor and Orc territory. They were a wide expanse of dry, stony land with rare green isles in narrow vales and basins where some water could be found. In the past the region had been riddled with streams, which had left their mark in the form of a labyrinth of narrow gorges and ravines carved into the rock, of steep dusty slopes and abrupt cliffs. To a foreign gaze every crossing and turn looked the same, turning the hills into a maze out of which no one could come.

By mid-morning Castiel had been reduced to trusting the horse's instincts more than his own. As it went from pass to pass, sticking close to the wall and to the shadow thrown by the rising sun, he could only hope that it was taking them in the direction he'd first indicated and not to a dwelling of Orcs. He let it choose its own pace too, waiting for the wide plains to make it go faster.

Around them the hills were eerily calm. The Orcs were nowhere to be seen or heard, so that every step, every slide, every overturned stone or pebble echoed loudly throughout the net of paths and dead-ends.

The whole day passed like this. As it reached its end Castiel climbed down from the saddle, for he felt the horse was tiring. He resettled Dean so that the now entirely unconscious hunter was lying forward, arms and legs hanging off the sides. He gave the horse to drink and eat, repeatedly pouring water and grains into his palm. Once that was done he took it by the bridle to lead it along a ledge as it ran down towards the bottom of the last ravine. Beyond it the wide plains of Wanck-dor opened, flat and bare and yet safe.

Their progress was slow, for the path was narrow and tricky and Castiel had to frequently make sure that Dean wasn't slipping. The knight was so focused on it and on where he put his feet that he didn't notice they weren't alone anymore, at least not until the first arrow whistled past his head, catching some of his hair before ricocheting off the wall behind him.

He whirled around at once, catching a glimpse of movement on the upper edge of the ravine. Orcs taking cover. The horse snorted in surprise, backed off, pawed at the ground. For a second Castiel feared that it'd rear up, but an expert tug on its bridle brought back the reflexes it had learned from the wars in which it had ridden. Two other arrows came at them, narrowly missing the knight's legs, Dean's shoulder, making Castiel keenly aware of how vulnerable they were, stuck in the middle of that ledge, in plain sight.

With a click of the tongue he urged the horse forward, not daring to bring it to a trot for fear of having Dean topple over to the bottom of the ravine. He had to duck repeatedly to avoid the projectiles flying at them and making the horse neigh its unease, and thanked the stars for the Orcs' poor skills with a bow and for the dimming light that made it harder to see.

They reached the end of the path unharmed, but by then Castiel could hear cries coming from further up the ravine and knew that they had pursuers. As soon as the way was large enough, he jumped back onto the saddle, seizing the reins in one hand and hauling Dean back up against his chest with his other arm. He barely took a second to secure his sitting before kicking the horse's sides. It was only too happy to obey and broke into a gallop at once. Several arrows embedded themselves into the ground where it had stood not a second before.

Castiel clung to the reins with one hand, not bothering to give the horse any direction, and to Dean's shirt with the other, hoping that the hunter's wounds wouldn't reopen. Yells and shouts rose behind them, eager and bloodthirsty at first, then growing enraged and revengeful when the Orcs recognized one of their mounts and saw it take a head start. More arrows flew past them, poorly shot due to the impatience of the archers, but all Castiel felt was apprehension and no small amount of frustration at himself for fleeing like a coward, which he'd never done in front of such opponents.

But he had no choice.

In front of them the ravine was widening, its slopes growing less steep as they descended towards the plains. Several Orcs were rushing down them, trying to cut off the horse's path. Castiel only leaned forward and urged it on, feeling how it lengthened its stride, veered to the side to avoid the sweep of a lance, then to the other side to escape a couple of Orcs launching themselves in its direction. It galloped on, past the Orcs, past the last of the Hills, onto the plains, and only slowed down once it had crossed a shallow but wide river flowing alongside them and southwards.

It didn't stop there, keeping up a light trot, but the change in pace allowed Castiel to straighten up, relieved at their being unharmed—apart from a clip on his right shoulder—but also confused, for the attack seemed to have ceased. When he glanced back he saw that the Orcs themselves had stopped: they were gathered at the edge of the stream, howling, cursing and gesturing in fury, but clearly unwilling to cross the water or even put a foot in it.

It was as if they were afraid.

And as he rode out of range for any of the weapons they might have had, Castiel realized that they were. He realized why. After all, it was entirely possible that Leviathans were swimming in it, or had spread their poison there. The horse had wetted his hooves and cannons and seemed unaffected, but a whole troop might not have been so lucky. It might've been attacked, bitten, contaminated, dragged down into the water to drown, anything.

That Leviathans might have reached territories so far West was worrying, but it incidentally meant that Castiel had managed his escape. He was now in Moondoor and safe, at least when it came to the region's inhabitants if not to the monsters dwelling there. He turned back towards the East and breathed out slowly. He let the grip he'd had on Dean relax, briefly closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the hunter's shoulder blade. Under the hand still pressing against the man's chest he felt his heart beat, slower and fainter but there. The potion was working.

The horse had slowed down to a walk but kept going. Castiel let it, considering they could stop once it was entirely dark, once they'd left the Shadow Hills further behind.

The plains of Wanck-dor opened ahead of them, wide expanses of grass stretching out for miles and miles. The weather was clear, with barely a couple of clouds in the sky. Behind them the sun was setting, bathing them in golden light and throwing elongated shadows under the horse's feet, in front of the rare bushes and trees. Far away to the North Castiel could make out the beginning of the low mountain range which he'd have to ride along then past in order to enter the heart of the kingdom. On his right the horizon was a flat line, but he knew that hidden among the folds of the terrain a large river flowed, which he would join after several days as it curved northwards. He'd ride through the large valley it carved through the mountains and fortunately wouldn't have to cross it.

Castiel breathed in. His aim was fixed, the weather was good.

He rode.

 

*

 

Days and miles went past.

Castiel settled into a rhythm. He rode from the first hints of dawn to the last shreds of light, holding the reins with one hand and keeping the other pressed to Dean's heart, counting its beats and the increasing amount of seconds in between. He made the horse alternate between a light canter, a sustained trot and long periods of simple walk, sometimes striding ahead of it himself. There were regular breaks throughout the day, a longer one during the night.

Yet slowly but surely, things shifted.

At first when the horse needed rest, Castiel took advantage of it to eat, drink and recover a bit too. He munched on the dry meat or bread Rufus had given him, took several mouthfuls of water, laid down for a while. But his preoccupations made the food taste like ash in his mouth, the water like liquid stone. They tied his stomach into such knots that he didn't feel the hunger, and nearly heaved once or twice when he tried to force himself. The same went for sleep, which still evaded him. Oftentimes he couldn't find a comfortable position, felt alternatively too hot and too cold, ached from spending the day astride a horse, holding Dean up against him—a myriad of things that had never bothered him before during his long wanderings or his campaigns. When he chased after sleep, _made_ himself drift off, he often got lost among nightmarish visions of Purgatory, of Hell, of a reality where the hunter's heart had stopped while Castiel wasn't paying attention, where his soul was suddenly gone, dragged back into the pit, onto the rack. Sleeping near Dean's inert body, which he painstakingly took off the saddle when they stopped and heaved back on when they left, helped minutely. Until it didn't anymore. By that point Castiel felt too strung-out to even close his eyes on the night sky.

He tried to pray, once. As a rule he didn't do it often and when he did it was to express his thanks, never to ask for anything. His angel wasn't there to perch on his shoulder. It had shown him the path he had to take, when it had called him to knighthood, and that was enough. That was all. But this time he nearly did ask, nearly prayed for his patron to give him strength, to give _Dean_ strength-

He stopped, almost at once. And it wasn't out of a feeling of improperness. No, it was because it felt like his half-formed thoughts couldn't find their purpose, were simply floating around then fraying and dissolving into thin air for lack of a current to carry them to their rightful recipient. As if there were no recipient at all. Castiel had never been confronted to that feeling before, not since he'd left his parents' domain to become a squire, then a knight. He'd never felt so cut off, never doubted the presence guiding his steps, the foundation of his faith; he'd never had it shaken, had never needed to reach for its source, had never expected that when he did he wouldn't find it, would only feel silence and emptiness above him.

So he stopped. He pushed away the thoughts and questions assailing his mind. He stood up. He checked on Dean, checked on the horse, judged it rested enough. He went on.

After that, though, he allowed for as few pauses as possible and he made them short. That way his doubts couldn't catch up, or so he hoped.

But it always took too long for the horse to recover enough. He found himself missing Grace, her familiarity, her tenacity and poise. He wished Impala were here, with her ability to cover miles and miles at a sustained, regular pace without break for days at a time—an ability that was famed and envied even among the knights.

Unfortunately they weren't here. Castiel wasn't even sure they'd safely made it back home.

He stopped caring about day and night, just went on whenever he could, whenever the horse allowed him to, climbing onto the saddle behind Dean or leading the beast by its bridle. He was always alert, eyes roving over the plains, looking for threats. A strange atmosphere reigned over the country, detached and quietly wrong. It unnerved him.

He chose his way so that they'd ride through a couple of villages when they reached the mountain range, hoping that he could find information and possibly a fresh mount that would carry him and Dean faster. But every single one of them was deserted. No children were playing between the houses, no exchanges were taking place at the stalls, no smoke was rising from the chimneys and no animals could be found or heard. The places showed all signs that the inhabitants had left all at once, in a hurry, taking nothing but the bare necessities with them.

It wasn't only these ghostly places, though. Even the plains had a forlorn, desolate feel to them. After Purgatory and Hell, after the Shadow Hills, it took Castiel a while to pin down why exactly.

There were no flowers, no insects. The grass was too short, too dry for that time of the year. There were no birds in the sky, neither passerines nor birds of prey. He surprised no rabbits, no deers, no boars, even when he neared small woods or copses of trees, even in the early hours of the morning, when dawn painted a stretch of light against the horizon, sketched the whole world in shades of grey and splashed it with dew in preparation before it applied the colors of the day. He reached the river running through the plains and saw no boats sailing on it.

It was as if he, Dean and the horse were the only living beings left in the whole region, in the whole world maybe; as if everyone and everything else had fled, was in hiding or dead.

He rode on though, couldn't think of anything else to do. Little by little, grey clouds came to hide the blue sky, without bringing any rain. By the time Castiel recognized the places and markers indicating that he had only one day ride left, the sky was entirely overcast, Dean's heart was beating less than once a minute and he himself hadn't slept nor eaten in three days.

He entered the forest cupping the southwestern part of the plain leading to the low mountains at whose feet the castle of Moondoor stood. It was entirely still, just like the plains and valley had been. The trees had leaves but they looked dull, fragile. There was no birdsong, no game bouncing away in a shuffle.

They abruptly came out of the woods, much earlier than Castiel had reckoned, much farther South than he remembered the tree line to be. In his surprise he straightened, bringing his mount to a halt, and stared. In front of him, what he remembered as a wide expanse of luxurious forest was a wasteland, an immense stretch of naked earth showing clear signs that a large amount of trees had been uprooted or felled. The small flowers of the undergrowth had been left to wither and die. The ground was littered with dead branches and leaves, with twigs, with dried stems and shriveled bushes.

Feeling bereaved, Castiel wondered what had happened and why. Under his hand, Dean's heart thumped, feebly. He realized that it had happened for the first time in far too long. The hunter was a dead weight in his arms, was growing colder, and Castiel had lost track of how many seconds had passed since the previous beat. He had little to no time left.

He was suddenly gripped by the fear that that heartbeat could've been one of the last.

He spurred the horse on, launching it at a last gallop through the plain. The mount snorted in protest but obeyed, slavish under the knight's imperious hand.

He could soon see the outline of the castle drawing itself against the mountain rising behind it, far in the distance. Focusing on it, he didn't notice the obstacle barring his way until he was close enough to make out the edifice's various wings and towers and to see what now lay in their shadows.

There was a wall, a makeshift fortification made of stone and wood, built in a wide circle at about half a mile distance from the castle and its surrounding town. It served as a battlement, a border and a defense between the plains and what looked like an endless camp of refugees. From a small hill on top of which he briefly paused, Castiel could see countless tents, hastily built huts and an incredible amount of people milling around like ants.

He had no time to question it, to let himself think of the direness of the situation, if it had come to this. He directed the horse down the hill and towards one of the rare turrets dotting the wall that had a gate.

In the strange, obsessed state of mind into which he'd sunk during his journey it appeared obvious to him that it'd open to let him pass. It didn't occur to him that one might not recognize him as the Captain of the Knights, which the Queen had sent on a mission of vital importance. He didn't even think of what he and Dean looked like, with their dirty beards and hair, in their stained, tattered clothes, on a horse stolen from a dead Orc. Which was why the first calls and warnings, the first demands for him to stop and identify himself didn't even register to his ears. He only hesitated and frowned because the horse slowed down, reluctant to keep running towards what it correctly identified as an impassable barrier. A second later it nearly reared up as a warning arrow stuck itself into the ground a feet away from its front legs. Castiel barely held it back and calmed it down. He looked down at the arrow and up towards the upper platform of the turret, uncomprehending.

That emotion was on the cusp of toppling over into irritation, which in his state would have turned into pure rage, when there was a commotion. The soldiers, who had several bows and crossbows trained on him, stepped back and to the side to let someone through. When she reached the bulwark and peered over it, Castiel recognized the Captain of the Guard, Jody Mills.

Several seconds passed as she frowned down at him. Then something flashed in her eyes, a spark of recognition that made them widen.

"Hold fire!" she shouted at once. "Open the gates!"

Castiel huffed a relieved breath and shook the reins for the horse to move forward. He thought that the captain's orders were all he needed as a free pass to ride up to the castle, where he'd find the Elves. So he was caught off-guard when, instead of letting him rush past, the guards posted at the foot of the turret ran up to him and caught the bridle of his mount to bring it to a halt. He understood even less when they tried to get him off the saddle.

"What-" he stuttered, only to tighten his hold on Dean when their tugging made them both slip down and stumble to the ground. The soldiers took advantage of the knight's brief loss of balance to take the hunter's dead weight off him, ripping him from his arms. "No!"

They paid no heed to his protests, grabbing him in spite of his struggling, exchanging remarks in rapid succession, calling for one of them to hurry as he approached with a goatskin. The soldier uncorked it as soon as he was close enough, and one of the men holding Castiel back held out the knight's hand for him to pour some liquid on it.

They relaxed when nothing happened, repeated the process with Dean, with the same result. Castiel barely noticed, as Ms. Mills had reached the bottom of the stairs and was walking in his direction. With an abrupt, irritated gesture he freed himself with half a mind to ask her what that had been about; but the movement made his knee buckle underneath him and instead of demanding explanations he stumbled right into her stunned arms.

He heard her call his name in alarm, but it sounded muffled and distant. His vision was swimming, spinning and when he blinked dark spots lingered in front of his eyes. Suddenly he felt like he couldn't breath, like he was going to be sick, like his whole body was failing him. With clumsy gestures he managed to pry one of his pouches open, to drag out the vial Rufus had given him and press it into Jody's palm. He tried to find his voice, to explain with his leaden tongue and numb lips about the remedy—that it was for Dean, that Dean needed the Elves, that he and Dean-

Unconsciousness took him before he could finish a sentence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you have questions or want to come say hi :)


	7. At the Castle of Moondoor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And oops I forgot to post this yesterday. Niitza fails. All my apologies to everyone still reading this ;-;

"Dean."

With the hunter's name on his lips, Castiel opened his eyes and in the same second sat up in bed, making Samandriel startle so bad that he almost fell off his chair. The young squire had been sitting at his master's bedside for hours, trying not to bite his nails and not let himself worry too much before the knight's prolonged stillness. He scrambled against the back of his seat while Castiel stared straight ahead before abruptly turning his head in his direction.

The knight remembered flashes: being half-carried to the castle, Sam Winchester rushing towards them in the courtyard with the Elf Jessica in tow, healer Missouri Moseley's face bending over him and then-

Nothing.

Samandriel was hesitant when he said: "You've been asleep for nearly two days."

A sharp look from his master was all he needed to launch into a description of the current situation and subsequently a recounting of what had happened since his and Dean's departure.

The first and most alarming fact was that their absence hadn't only lasted one winter, but more than a year. So long, actually, that people had started doubting whether they'd come back. Their fear had been all the stronger for how the situation had worsened. Leviathans had rapidly spread and colonized most streams, springs and ponds and lakes. Only a few of them were still pure, situated in the northern part of the country. The people there were constantly drawing water and delivered it in barrels to the rest of Moondoor, despite the dangers of the road. The great majority of villages had been evacuated, their inhabitants fleeing to the castles of their lords, barons and counts who tried to ensure their protection and feeding. In a lot of cases they'd chosen to head directly to the royal castle.

It had been okay, at first, until the end of the first winter, where they had realized that keeping away from watercourses wasn't enough to stay safe. The Leviathans had indeed found out that they could take a human shape, any shape, and had started infiltrating the camps, often borrowing the features of someone trusted, someone close. It had led to confusion and panic, to bloody fights breaking out from one second to the next, their flames fueled by a wind of betrayal, hatred and distrust. Members of the same families had attacked each other, sometimes entire villages had slaughtered themselves. It had even reached the castle, creating chaos and bringing the kingdom to the edge of collapse—until unexpectedly, providentially, Jody Mills had found a way to unmask the enemy. She'd been cornered, weaponless, in Sam Winchester's workshop and as a last resort had started throwing every vial and bottle on which she could get her hands at her opponent. One of them had had a spectacular effect, burning through the Leviathan's skin, leaving it on its knees, writhing in pain. She'd run past it, snatched the remnants of the bottle, left the room and barred the door behind her.

As it had turned out, the bottle had contained the powder of a mineral, borax, which was usually mixed in preparations aiming to fight off pests.

It had taken some time for the news to spread and for the kingdom to find sources where they could extract enough of that crystal for all its people to use. Several scouts had been sent to find the Warriors of Yesteryear, to remind them of the treaty that they'd signed with Moondoor, to broker an agreement where they'd exploit the dry lakes at the edge of the Desert, which were rich in borax, and the kingdom would send back a part of the elixir it produced, which could serve as a weapon against the Leviathans that had begun plaguing them too, as they had the Orcs. It also served as an identifier: the Leviathans had been chased from the castles and camps, and now everyone entering them had to let the guards pour a drop or two of the solution onto their hands to prove that they were human.

Castiel vaguely remembered the scene that had taken place upon his passing through the battlement gates and nodded in understanding. Samandriel went on.

After that the situation had improved a bit, even though the Leviathans were still gaining ground. People felt that they had a way to fight back, that they could preserve a safe space where no evil could reach. By the time spring had reached its full development, Sam Winchester, Kevin Tran and the Elves had made enough progress in their research to have a first version of the incantation and a clearer idea of what the texts meant when they mentioned the bones of a righteous mortal.

Given that next to none of the soldiers and knights could be spared at the time, Samandriel, Kristine Chambers and Kevin Tran had embarked on a quest of their own, which had brought them to the necropolis lying in the shadow of Mount Mordorg. It was the resting place of kings long gone, of nobles from old families, of commoners having distinguished themselves in their lifetime by their heroic deeds. As they'd wandered among tombs and sepulchers the three young people had debated over whose bones would best apply for the spell—an argument which Krissy had won, leading them to the simple grave of Samuel Colt, a hunter renowned far and wide. He was still remembered in songs for his exploits and his contribution to the fight against demons, back when so many of them were roaming the Earth, conspiring to free the Devil.

They'd failed, in part thanks to him.

Their quest had been successful, but it hadn't been without dangers. Apart from the Leviathans lurking on the way there and back, the three young people had disturbed and angered more than one spirit when entering the city of the dead. Krissy had come out of it with barely a scratch, but Kevin had lost a finger and Samandriel had not only received a hit to the head but also been blinded for weeks, which had considerably slowed down their return.

They'd been surprised and worried when they'd reached the castle and learned that Dean and Castiel still hadn't come back. Samandriel didn't state it explicitly, but Castiel understood that it had been at that point that his squire's faith in his master had wavered, that he'd started to wonder if he'd come back, what they'd do it he didn't, if there would ever be an end to this war.

The summer had ended nearly quietly, but the plague and the flights it had provoked had prevented the people from planting and maintaining their crops. The harvest in autumn had been extremely poor, and they hadn't even dared add to it by plucking wild fruit, as it came from trees and bushes that had drunk water from poisoned streams. Thanks to the country's reserves, inherited from its times of war, they'd been able to hold over a long, hard winter, although many people had died.

They wouldn't last another year that way.

But now Castiel had come back, carrying the three bloods that the country so desperately needed. The spell had been ready for months. The castle's smith, which went by the nickname of Ash, had locked himself in his forge with the vials, the pieces of Samuel Colt's bones and Sam, with the explicit order not to be disturbed for three days. He was hard at work already, creating the weapon and performing the spell that'd enable its bearer to slay the Leviathans once and for all.

Relief and hope resonated in the boy's voice as he reached the end of his narration. He straightened in his seat, started to smile.

"What about Dean?" Castiel asked.

Samandriel looked confused for a second, caught off-guard by the abrupt change of topic.

"I don't know," he admitted. "He's been left in the care of the Elves and since then I haven't heard anything."

Castiel felt a spark of irritation at the lack of information, but refrained from snapping at his squire. The boy didn't know, couldn't know what had happened, couldn't have expected that the knight would thirst for news about a man who, previous to their quest, had been little more than a stranger to him. He stamped down on his concern, repeating to himself that the absence of any precisions was a good sign, a guarantee that nothing serious had happened.

"I need to speak with the Queen," he said.

He threw off his covers and, despite Samandriel's protests and recommendations that he rest longer, he rose, got dressed and left his chambers.

 

*

 

Castiel didn't head to the throne hall at once, where the Queen was holding a council in preparation for the expedition to the Black Sea of Lorloch, from whence the evil had originated. First he went to the infirmary, hoping to hear more about Dean's state and progress.

He reached the large hall leading to the room in question and a fair amount of guest chambers and stopped. For the first time he really saw why his squire had talked about a plague, what he had meant by that, what the Leviathans did beyond sowing discord and distrust.

The hall was filled with rows upon rows of beds and cots. On these beds, people were lying. They weren't unconscious: their eyes were open, but unseeing, slowly wandering around without focusing on anything; their lips were parted, but they didn't speak; their limbs were entirely limp. They were here but not, alive but not, listless and indifferent to anything that might happen around them, to them.

Castiel slowly crossed the corridor, eyes lingering on all these faces, recognizing so many of them: several guards, servants, shopkeepers from the lower town, several knights—Dame Esther and Sir Inias among them—, hunters. Victor and Jo were there, both thinner, paler. Mrs. Harvelle was there too, although she was unharmed. She was sitting at her daughter's bedside, spoonfeeding her some porridge which the young woman reflexively swallowed while she stared straight ahead, eyes devoid of their usual spark. Many young boys and girls were doing the same around them, giving the sick something to eat and receiving nothing in return.

"Its terrible, isn't it?"

Castiel turned his head and saw a woman with dark curls standing beside him, hands in the pockets of her apron. She glanced at him and smiled, reaching out a hand, which Castiel shook. Her eyes, which were nearly as green as Dean's, dropped down when she felt his clumsy grip. The pain coiled in his forearm prevented the knight from closing his hand properly, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

"Pamela Barnes," she said, choosing not to remark on it. "I've been called in to help Missouri with the whole mess. As you can see, we have more than enough patients to keep us busy."

"Do you manage to save them?" Castiel asked.

"If you mean do we manage to keep them _alive_ , then yes. They still eat, although we can't expect them to hold their own bowl. But with a little bit of luck there'll be enough blood left from the spell the royal smith is performing for us to work out a cure."

Her face was grave as she spoke, but she hadn't given up hope, as shown by the determination ringing in her voice and shining in her eyes. Castiel asked her about Dean.

"Oh, that one's a special case," she replied. "He's been brought to a separate room just in case and is being handled by the Elves. It looks like it's a tough one."

"May I go see him?"

Pamela snorted. "Certainly not. You don't want to disturb those guys in the middle of their chants and preparations, trust me."

Castiel pressed his lips together in disappointment and worry at hearing that two days hadn't been enough for the Elves themselves to make Dean recover. But he inclined his head in submission and prepared to leave.

"Are you going to see the Queen?" Pamela asked. When Castiel confirmed it, she exchanged a glance with Missouri, who was moving and massaging the limbs of a patient several beds away, and fell into step beside him. "I'm coming with you," she said. "Her majesty's expecting our daily report."

They didn't talk on the way to the throne room. Castiel wasn't one for smalltalk and Pamela seemed content with staying silent.

When they arrived the guards opened the doors for them without question, as if they'd been expecting them both. Castiel and Pamela found the Queen sitting at the round council table, Sam Winchester to her right and several Elves to her left. Jessica wasn't among them. Castiel hoped it meant that she was with the ones taking care of Dean. He also noticed the presence of Dame Rachel, who respectfully stood up upon his arrival, and, surprisingly to him, of Garth Fitzgerald, a lanky man who looked more like a clumsy farmhand than a proper hunter. With Dean Winchester gone, Joanna Harvelle and Victor Henriksen infected by the Leviathans, he'd had to provisorily step into the position of Head Huntsman, which he'd been the last to expect. But he'd done his best, and overtime had earned himself a seat and a voice among the Queen's most trusted advisors.

When Castiel entered the room they'd been discussing who should accompany the Queen, as she had decided that she had to be the one to ride against the great snake hiding in the sea. They interrupted their reflexions so that Charlie could inquire about the knight's health and listen to Pamela's report. After that two more chairs were brought for the newcomers to sit down and take part in the deliberations.

It had already been decided that Jody Mills would stay behind to ensure the defense of the castle, while Sam Winchester would follow the Queen to help with anything ranging from spells to organization to fights. Garth Fitzgerald would represent the hunters, Dame Rachel lead the knights-

When he heard that, Castiel intervened, as he'd expected he would be the one to ride at the Queen's side. The whole table paused to stare at him when they heard that.

"No, Sir Castiel," the Queen said after several long seconds of charged silence. "You will not be coming with us."

Castiel frowned. "Why?"

"Why?" Pamela repeated, making him swivel in his chair. She met his eye frankly, fingers interlaced on her lap. "With the Queen's permission, I'll tell you why." She glanced at Charlie, who inclined her head to grant her the right to speak, then brought her gaze back to the knight. "You are at the end of your rope. You're exhausted. You're sleep-deprived. You're undernourished. Your body is littered with more wounds than I can count, which might be superficial for the most part but which you obviously haven't been treating properly." At that Castiel put a hand on his chest. Through the fabric of his doublet and shirt he could still feel the bandages that he'd found wrapped around his chest, arms and legs upon waking up, covering the wounds that he'd sustained in Purgatory and had since then forgotten. Pamela went on: "But that's almost nothing compared to what's happening underneath."

Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"You've been to Hell, Sir, and macerated in its stench for God knows how long. Dean Winchester is not the only one who came out of it affected."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you need some serious purifying, as soon as possible, or you'll end up like him. Or, worse, like the poor, twisted, wretched souls you've met down there and are known around here as demons."

Her words were as open and direct as her gaze and were followed by another silence. Several people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Castiel for his part remembered Alastair's last words, realized that up until now he hadn't fully understood what the demon had meant. He felt how much the throbbing pain that it had left in his forearm had spread without his notice. It was so constant that it didn't quite register, but also so acute that it was nearly paralyzing.

"Your treatment will start as soon as this meeting is over," the Queen told him gently, and he realized that she'd known from the start what was happening. "I trust the healers to take care of you in my absence. Besides, once you've recovered the guards and knights who will also stay here will be grateful to have you here to lead them."

Castiel met her concerned gaze and lowered his eyes in acquiescence. He didn't voice his doubts about his abilities as a leader, and simply said: "As your Majesty wishes."

He remained mostly silent for the rest of the meeting, keenly aware that he was far from being the most informed about the situation, especially when Dame Rachel started to speak. She'd proven herself an excellent captain in his absence. It was even possible, Castiel found himself thinking, that she was better than he'd ever been. It was therefore only right to defer to her, at least for now.

Once all decisions had been made, everyone rose in unison, bowing to the Queen and to the elven guests as they left the room. Castiel watched them go and went to exchange some last words and well-wishes with Dame Rachel.

When Ms. Barnes beckoned him, he silently followed.

 

*

 

The following days were deeply unpleasant for the knight. He spent them in a small, windowless room, breathing nothing but air that was permeated with burning incense and sage, eating and drinking nothing but holy water that scalded down his throat and made him heave, hearing nothing but old chants and prayers to chase away evil and corruption. His body was being purged. It didn't appreciate it. He sweated copiously, lost count of how many times he threw up and suffered from intense diarrhea as a fever took hold and spiked.

Sometimes he thought he could hear soft, encouraging words, cut off sentences telling him that things were okay, that his body was getting rid of Hell's stench the only ways it knew how, that it would pass, that he should drink more. But the water burned his tongue and made him choke, it was insufferable, it tasted like poison. He tried to push it away, slapped the hand bringing it to his lips, scratched the arms holding him down and yelled. In answer the chanting grew louder, the smell of sage more suffocating. He gasped and struggled and seized.

He started to lapse in and out of consciousness, his senses weakening for stretches of time that grew longer and longer. And as it happened the litanies grew fainter, distant; the smells weakened, even the burn of the water lessened, replaced by cool and quiet. Soon he felt like he was floating, the things around him fading and darkening until it somehow melted into light. There was a presence beside him, around him, something or someone immeasurable, unconceivable, terrifying—but also warm and compassionate, familiar. Safe.

He felt a touch on his forehead like the kiss of sunlight on a mild summer day, heard a whisper like the caress of a soft breeze rustling through the leaves: _sleep_.

He slept.

 

*

 

He woke up in his bed again. The mattress curved gently under him, the covers and sheets weighed down on him, enfolding him in a smooth, warm cocoon. Clear sunlight was streaming through the opened windows, the parted curtains undulating in the breeze that eased its way inside. Samandriel was back in the bedside chair and had nodded off in spite of his uncomfortable position.

Castiel closed his eyes again and let out a long sigh. He felt exhausted.

His squire blinked his eyes open as soon as he tried to sit up and fell back among the pillows. Immediately the boy was at his side, telling him to be careful, to go slow.

Castiel obeyed, if only because his limbs were so weak. His hands and wrists were bony, far more than he remembered, and when he brought his fingers to his forehead, his cheek, he found his face emaciated, his skin dry like parchment.

"The cure drained you entirely," Samandriel explained, full of solicitude. "You've been asleep for three days. You should eat or drink something, now that you're awake."

The mention of food made the knight suddenly feel the hunger gnawing at his stomach and he agreed. His squire helped him sit up, back propped against several pillows and bolsters, and ran off in direction of the kitchens.

While he was gone Castiel assessed the state of his body. All his limbs responded correctly, from his forehead down to his toes, and the pain in his right arm and side had abated. His articulations ached, though, and every single one of his muscles felt numb, sluggish. His thinner arms trembled when he raised them, his hands only closed and opened slowly.

He needed rest.

Samandriel came back with a glass of water and a large steaming bowl on a tray, which he gingerly placed on his master's lap. Castiel seized the spoon, looking at the broth that had been offered to him.

"The healers said your stomach might not tolerate solid food from the get go," the squire hastily explained. The knight nearly told him he wouldn't have felt able to swallow it anyway, but prioritized asking for what had happened in the last few days.

As he'd suspected the Queen had left, taking as many soldiers and knights with her as the castle could spare. The days before he departure had been a flurry of activity, especially for Sam Winchester, who had gone from Ash's forge to the Elves, who wanted to use some of his blood as part of their treatment for his brother, to his quarters in order to prepare for the trip, to the road headed south.

The elven cure had been successful, Samandriel announced, proud to have remembered his master's interest in the matter. Dean was alive, on the way to recovery. He was sleeping.

Now all that was left to do was hold the castle against any potential attack, keep up the people's morale, and wait. For Castiel, it was also to rest.

He wasn't good at either.

He managed to stay in bed for one day. After that the itch to get up, to do something, to be active and useful started running under his skin, became irritating and unbearable.

He didn't get far. His body was still too weak to move around much, but he did manage to eat some soup and bread, wash, get dressed and come out of his room for a short walk to the end of the corridor and back before he retreated back to his rooms. He kept it up the following day, and the day after that, lengthening his round every time.

He went down to the main hall and listened to the minstrels composing and polishing their verses about Samandriel and his two companion's quest. They didn't dare start on Dean and Castiel's journey, as it hadn't reached its full end yet, let alone on the Queen's campaign.

He visited to the infirmary but retreated hastily, as he didn't want to stand in anybody's way.

He strolled through the gardens, although they'd been neglected or put to more practical use; small corn fields had replaced most flower-beds, lined with the puny tops of root vegetables. Gone were the winding paths along which Castiel had walked, deep in thought, gone were the shade and clusters of wild flowers that had charmed him, gone were the birds whose songs had so often calmed him down.

He met with Jody Mills, with the remaining members of the council, with the Elves that had stayed behind to learn the details of the situation. He helped organize the rhythm of patrols and the defense of the castle, manage the influx of refugees, monitor the rationing of food and water. And as he did so, as he made himself visible, he could feel the people take notice. He nearly heard the confirmed news of his return spread from the castle to the lower town to the camp beyond, the speculations and hopes it awoke. He saw men, women and children alike perk up and go at their task with renewed vigor and hoped it'd be justified.

He came to visit Grace in her stable, relieved to find her home and healthy, although she was a bit forlorn since Impala had left with Sam Winchester as her rider. The horse who had carried him and Dean all the way from the western border was here too, eagerly munching on its well-deserved grain and enjoying its rest. It didn't come closer to greet Castiel, which the knight perfectly understood.

He made his way to the chapel, kneeled in front of the altar and prayed to his angel, a prayer of thanks. He was thankful for his return home, for the strength and luck that had enabled him to fulfill his duty and finish their quest, for what Samandriel, Krissy, Kevin, Sam and the Elves had achieved during his absence, for his own recovery. For the relief of feeling its presence again. He even dared wish, humble and unassuming, that the same favor would be bestowed upon Dean, who deserved it and so much more, and upon their Queen.

At the end of every one of his walks, before he returned to his chambers, he stopped at a room situated at the other end of the corridor. There he sat down on an armchair and watched over Dean while the hunter slept.

Samandriel hadn't been lying. The Elves had given Dean Rufus' counter-poison, had managed to heal his wounds, to stop the corruption that Alastair had implanted in him so it would turn his blood sour, darken his soul and make him one of the monsters he'd dedicated his life to fighting. He was cured. He was stabilized.

But he wasn't waking up.

While Castiel sat at his bedside he saw all the people that dropped by to visit him. Krissy, tight-lipped and silent but stubbornly there; Kevin, with crazed hair and deep circles under his eyes from all the hours he'd spent poring over books, preparing derivatives from borax and potions for the healers' use; Samandriel, much to Castiel's surprise, with the soft greeting of "Hey, Dean, it's Alfie", referring to the name he'd had before his calling; Ellen, haggard and grim for almost having lost a daughter and now a man she considered a son; Missouri and Pamela, with exercises for his arms and legs and broths they made him drink by tilting his head back and massaging his throat; Ash, with laid-out plans about the weapons he was going to make for him and for Castiel; Jody Mills, with a rough affection and frustrated helplessness; Gabriel, with inappropriate jokes that badly hid the genuine care underneath; Lisa, a draper from the lower town, and her son Ben, who might as well have been Dean's for much he clung to the hunter's hand and begged him to wake up, until his mother gently but firmly pried him away and took him back home, were his father was waiting… So many people, without counting the absentees, Sam Winchester, the castle's hunters and Queen Charlie herself, who undoubtedly would've been right there with Castiel if they'd been able to.

More than once, the knight woke up in the armchair just as the day faded outside, sometimes in the middle of the night, and he realized that he'd spent far longer in the room than he'd first intended. But on these occasions he also realized that he'd just slept better than he ever did in his bed, where he was plagued with worries and filled with dread in face of all that could happen—to the hunter, the the country, to the Queen if the spell hadn't worked, if Castiel hadn't fulfilled his quest correctly. So little by little, the minutes he spent in Dean's room became an hour, several hours, until it was where he spent most his time when he wasn't busy with his multiplying duties around the castle.

He was there once again one afternoon, absently watching through the window as the latest water shipment from the north was being unloaded in the courtyard below, when he heard a familiar voice ring out in the corridor—an unexpected voice. He turned, briefly exchanged a glance with Krissy, who was sitting on a chair on the other side of Dean's bed, and left the room. Just as he closed the door behind himself a man rounded the corner at a swift pace, saw him and briefly froze.

Castiel recognized his twin brother.

"Emmanuel," James cried out, hurrying over to him. Before Castiel could react he'd thrown his arms around his shoulders with a gasp, still out of breath from running up the stairs. "Em, dear God, I heard you came back."

"You know that's not my name," Castiel tutted, but he returned the embrace with a smile.

And it wasn't, not anymore. Emmanuel belonged to the past, to another reality it felt like sometimes. He belonged to a time when their father had still been alive, when he himself had been little more than a boy and had thought that his life was all mapped out before him in a straight, clear line—a marriage to Miss Daphne, the daughter of a neighboring lord; an heir, maybe two; a quiet life ruling over his parents' estate, then an even quieter retirement. It had been before the dreams, before the calling, before his angel had talked to him for the first time, gifted him with his name and made him understand that his purpose lay elsewhere.

"Ah, you know how it is," James said when they parted. "Old habits die hard."

He'd never been entirely okay with it, with Emmanuel being gone, somehow, all at once, replaced by this young man named Castiel who was exactly the same but not. He had never understood it.

Very few people did.

"Here, let me look at you," James went on, raising a hand to his brother's cheek as if to hold him still while he checked his face, his eyes. His smile faltered at once. "You're not—Em, Castiel, what happened to you?"

He drew Castiel into another hug and the knight patted his back reassuringly. He was fully aware of what James was referring to and understood his brother's concern.

They'd stopped looking identical years ago, due to their different lifestyles. Castiel got used to standing straighter, his body developed to be more muscular but also thinner, lankier, due to constant exercises, to the countless days of travel, to the campaigns that could last several months. His skin had darkened under the sun, on the roads, his hands and his body were covered in scars. The wrinkles on his forehead, at the corner of his eyes had come earlier, deeper, along with the first grey hair climbing up his temples.

James on the other hand had filled out more, with muscles as well as fat; he'd even started developing a belly in the last years. He'd kept the pale skin inherited from their mother, which easily bloomed into a healthy, rosy flush on his cheeks. The beard of a lord had been circling his jaw since Castiel had given up on the title and he carried with flair the rich garments becoming a noble of his rank. His hands were marred with ink and paper-cuts more than callouses, although he knew how to use a sword.

The last year had left its mark on him. He was a bit thinner, his face a bit pasty. His brow was weary and he had dark rings under his eyes. All of these were obvious signs of privation and concern for his people—and for his brother. But that same year had been even worse on the knight, who was now little more than a bag of bones under stretched skin. He looked like he'd fall over at the first hint of wind, with hollow cheeks and a complexion still ashen after Hell's poisoning. He felt shaken by everything that had happened. And he was exhausted, for he couldn't quite rest until Dean had woken up, proved that he'd be alright.

"Claire is going to be very disappointed to have missed you," James said, never one to dwell on the worst side of things. "She wanted to come but Amelia refused and I had to agree. The roads are far too dangerous by now." The expression in his eyes had darkened as he spoke, but he chased it away with a smile. "But come on, come with me to the kitchens," he said, clasping Castiel on the shoulder. "I am famished, and you clearly need to eat. We have a lot to talk about."

And talk they did. James, of course, wanted to know what had happened during the quest, understand why it had taken so long and why Castiel had come out of it in such a pitiful state. But the knight wasn't ready to put the past year into words, didn't even know if he ever would be, so he barely skimmed over the facts and redirected the conversation towards Moondoor, towards their family estate.

It was among the few regions where the streams were still safe from the Leviathans, as their sources lay far up in the northernmost mountains. Many villagers had found refuge there. Their mother had left the remote manor to which she'd retired in order to help James' wife run the castle during his numerous absences, as he felt it his duty to escort as many convoys as possible and take part in the expeditions looking for runaways and refugees.

For all these reasons, he couldn't stay long. He had to leave the following morning with the empty barrels leftover from the previous water delivery. But in between making sure that the preparations were running smoothly, he spent as much time as possible with his twin, plying him with food and drinks and affection. He even suggested that Castiel left with him, came back to their home land where he could recover without having to worry about how much water he used.

Castiel felt tempted, but had to decline. In the Queen's absence, the people needed him as a figurehead, no matter how damaged he appeared or how little he actually accomplished. Besides, he was in no state to be riding, would only slow the convoy down and put them in danger. Two reasons James understood.

The knight didn't mention the third one, who had been the first to spring to his mind: he couldn't leave Dean.

So James resigned himself to going back alone. Castiel wrote a short letter to his mother, a longer one to his niece in which he apologized for his prolonged absence but promised to come for a visit once everything was over. When his brother saw this his lips curled with a resigned irony the knight wasn't familiar with, a visible crack of doubt brought on by the trials of the past year.

"I have faith in our Queen," Castiel countered calmly when James met his gaze. It made the lord smile before he folded the letters back up and slipped them into his doublet to deliver them himself. Then, with a last look and nod, he turned his horse around and went to take the head of the departing party.

Castiel watched them go until they disappeared around a turn in the mountains rising north of the castle, and went back inside—back to Dean's bedside.

 

*

 

After that, it was back to waiting again.

At Pamela's insistence, Ash had taken care not to use all the blood during the spell and forging of the magnificent sword he'd made for the Queen. With what was left of it, the healers had come up with a treatment that they could produce in sufficient quantities and that proved fruitful. Little by little people came out of their stunned state, blinked and breathed in and looked around like waking up from a deep sleep. They straightened up, ate a first meal by themselves, another one, managed to stand up. They reacted when spoken to, opened their mouths to answer, much to their relatives' relief.

Joanna and Victor came to visit Dean as soon as their atrophied muscles allowed them to. A rumor of joy and first celebration ran through the castle and its surroundings as the infirmary emptied itself and families were reunited.

But Dean's state didn't change.

Castiel still went to see him every day, as did Krissy. Yet every time he entered the room and the girl wasn't there, the knight now found a woman sitting in her chair at Dean's bedside, a young woman with the generic clothes of a commoner, with neat black hair, with pale eyes and skin. A young woman whom he didn't know. She sat with the softest hint of a smile on her lips, neither nervous nor worried, simply… waiting. She never said anything, never returned Castiel's greetings nor answered his questions. She didn't even seem to notice his presence, quietly looking down at the hunter's lax features, hands folded on her lap, patient.

But she always, always stood up and left as soon as Castiel, unnerved and inexplicably defensive, put his hand on Dean's, wrapped his fingers around the hunter's palm.

Every day it felt a little bit colder, a sign that the man wasn't getting any better. Even Pamela found it difficult to maintain her cheer and optimism when she came to check on him and feed him. Making him swallow even the smallest bowl of broth was a slow, fastidious process, a way to keep Dean alive that wouldn't last forever. Over two weeks had passed already since their return. The hunter had visibly lost weight. His face was gaunt, his muscles were melting; it was like all the efforts made by Castiel and the Elves had been in vain, couldn't prevent him from fading away.

The last look Pamela exchanged with Castiel that day made the knight know for certain: Dean wouldn't last much longer before it was too late, before they had to give up.

He didn't want to give up. He didn't want a country, a world that had saved itself by sacrificing Dean Winchester.

After the healer had left he sat on the side of the bed, cradling Dean's left hand in both of his. The hunter's skin was dry, covered in old, pale thin scars. The knuckles stood out starkly. Castiel kissed them softly then pressed his forehead against them, eyes squeezed shut. They felt cold against his feverish skin.

"Come on, Dean," he said, and didn't care about the broken sound of his voice. "You're stronger than this."

He hadn't gone back to the chapel, hadn't dared, and yet he found himself praying now, with Dean's hand clasped tightly in his and his heart full of longing, full of the unwavering conviction that the hunter deserved to be saved. He leaned down to brush a kiss on his forehead, a blessing; then to the side of his nose, a sign of affection; then on his lips, a testimony of devotion and love. He lingered there for a bit before he straightened up, throat painfully tight. Blinking his burning eyes and ignoring the way his vision was threatening to blur, he pressed one last kiss to the hand he was holding.

Horns and trumpets blared outside, making him violently startle and almost drop Dean's hand. Instead he reflexively squeezed it and pressed it against his chest. He looked around in confusion. When the instruments resounded again, he stood up and rushed to the window.

There, coming out of the pass leading to the Southern Wall, a large troop was approaching. From this distance Castiel couldn't see much, but he recognized the raised flags and banners, the red and gold of the Kingdom of Moondoor.

The Queen had returned. And she'd returned victorious.

Heart in his throat, the knight watched as the riders and warriors came closer, worn and dusty but smiling. Pages, soldiers and knights blew their instruments again and again. And finally he caught sight of her, the Queen, riding towards the front of the procession, her bright red hair unmistakeable. They shone in the sun like a torch lit to celebrate the return of more prosper times.

Beside her on her right was the dark and large shape of Impala, ridden by Sam Winchester, while on her left came a dark-haired woman whom Castiel didn't recognize. As the army approached he noticed her get-up, typical for a Warrior of Yesteryear, and realized that she was followed by a whole troop of her people.

"Cas?"

The knight froze. He stood there at the window, not daring to turn, to look for fear of finding out that he'd imagined the weak voice calling him. But in the end he did, he couldn't help it, and he saw Dean—Dean awake, or barely, moving and trying to sit up but too weak to succeed, his arms and hands as clumsy as the limbs of a newborn fawn.

"What's with all the racket?" he muttered with a disgruntled frown, clearly peeved at the disturbance. His head fell back onto his pillow and he sighed, exhausted. "Cas."

In the blink of an eye Castiel reached his bedside and took his hand again, huffing incredulously when Dean's fingers squeezed back.

"Dean," he managed to get out, voice choked.

The hunter's eyes widened when they focused on Castiel's face. "Woah, Cas," he said. "What happened to you? What's happ- Hey, it's okay, whatever it is-" He reached up with his free hand to cup the knight's cheek, and only then did Castiel realize that he was crying and helplessly smiling at the same time. "Cas, you're freaking me out."

Castiel let out a short, wavering laugh. "It's okay, I'm okay," he assured Dean. "I'm perfect."

"You sure?" the hunter asked, brow tight with worry.

"Yes, _yes_ ," the knight retorted, forcing himself to breathe. "Don't worry about me, Dean."

He hastily wiped his cheeks and snatched Dean's hand as it slid away so he held both of them. His eyes roved over the hunter's features. He felt himself smile again at seeing these green irises again. He wanted to brush his fingers against Dean's eyelashes as he blinked drowsily, against his neck and chest to feel his heart beat and his lungs expand, deeper than they had in days.

"You must be exhausted," he said instead.

"I kind of am," Dean mumbled, then winced. "But it's not like I can sleep with all that ruckus."

The horns and trumpets were still booming, closer now. Castiel barely heard them.

"It'll stop soon, I promise," he said, knowing that the procession would soon reach the castle. Already the rumor of people talking and rushing to meet it was rising. A cry of joy rung out, and was taken back up by the crowd, spiking in a roar of celebration. After that it quietened.

The instruments had stopped. Dean's eyes were drooping.

"What's happening?" he asked, resisting the drag of sleep.

"Nothing you need to worry about right now," Castiel replied. "You can rest. Everything is okay, I promise."

Dean's answer was an indistinct mumble as he sunk down, slightly turned to the side towards Castiel, whose hands he was still holding. His breathing evened out, lengthened and deepened, the breathing of a refreshing, healing sleep. A normal sleep. Castiel closed his eyes and breathed out slowly in turn, feeling his shoulders release a tension of which he hadn't been entirely aware.

He thanked his angel with every fiber of his being.

When he looked up again, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced over. The young woman was standing in the doorway, hair still dark and neat, skin still pale, watching them. After several seconds she met Castiel's gaze. She smiled at him, soft and quiet. And she disappeared, her shape fading away like mist in the sun, like the lingering shadows of a bad dream in the clear light of a new morning.

 

*

 

Castiel would've wished for nothing more than stay at Dean's side, but his duty as Captain of the Knights called him downstairs. He left the hunter in the hands of his apprentice, Krissy, who came up to share the news of the Queen's return and gave him the first wide and honest smile that he'd ever seen on her lips when he told her that Dean had woken up.

He reached the entrance hall of the castle just as the Queen finally walked through it after having greeted and briefly addressed her people on the steps of the courtyard. She was tired but her heart was glad, for she had defeated the evil threatening the realm. The weary smile she gave her first knight turned into a beaming one as soon as she heard the news about Dean.

Sam was excused at once to go see his brother, even though he knew he probably wouldn't get to talk to him. Castiel followed the Queen as she was swept up in the intricacies of managing her return. The travelers' belongings and mounts had to be cared for and put away, good lodgings had to be found for the guests, messengers had to be sent to announce in the whole kingdom that the Leviathans had been slain, a first celebratory dinner had to be organized and the preparations for the feast that would take place in the weeks to come had to be put in motion.

On that evening the heralds recounted the first tales of the Queen's courage against the indescribable monster that had spawned the Leviathans, of the terrifying moments in which they'd believed that they wouldn't prevail, of the skills and dexterity of the Elves, of the unexpected arrival of a troop of Warriors of Yesteryear led by Dorothy, who had scorned her tribe's cowardice and gone against her leader's orders, taking with her any man or woman ready to die fighting for their world.

The meal didn't extend long into the night, since everyone needed rest. As it wound down the Queen stood up to retreat to her rooms, gesturing for Castiel to follow her. The knight bid his peers good night, especially Dame Rachel who had come back with a broken arm but had bravely withstood the pain on the whole journey back, and hurried after Charlie.

She dropped by Dean's room on her way, of course. Krissy was still there, as well as Sam. The hunter was awake, propped up against his pillows and frowning sullenly as Joanna fed him some soup with a spoon that his trembling hands didn't allow him to hold. He attempted to straighten up to properly greet his Queen, but she firmly pushed him back down. Voice hushed, they exchanged several sentences while the other people present in the room politely refrained from listening in. Afterwards Charlie straightened and, patting her Head Huntsman on the shoulder, she gave him a last, fond smile before leaving the room.

"You should all be going to sleep too," Dean said once the door had closed behind her. He pointed at everyone in turn: "Sammy, you just came back from two weeks journey and a war. Jo, you're in recovery. Kid, it's past your bedtime."

"I'm not a _kid_ ," Krissy protested at once, crossing her arms. Dean's gaze remained stern and inflexible. Jo stood up to wrap an arm around her shoulders and try to lead her away, but the girl shrugged her off at once. "And what about Sir Castiel? He should be leaving too."

She was clearly angry that the knight wasn't receiving the same treatment as she, even though he hadn't spent much more time than she watching over the hunter while he was unconscious. Several awkward seconds followed while it became obvious to all adults that Dean had purposefully forgotten to include Castiel, for he wanted to talk to him in private.

When Jo grabbed the apprentice again, it was with enough firmness that the girl understood that she should stop complaining.

"You'll see him tomorrow," the huntress hissed between her teeth.

Krissy wordlessly tore her arm away before she left the room, refusing to be dragged out like a disobedient child. Jo rolled her eyes but followed her, throwing Dean a wave over her shoulders as she went. Sam lingered for a while longer, shuffling his feet in concern, until Dean pinned him down with a pointed look. The man answered with a huff and a rueful smile, but gave in.

Castiel listened to his footsteps echoing down the corridor before he went to sit on the side of Dean's bed, hands folded on his lap to prevent himself from reaching for the hunter again.

"Hey," Dean said with a faint smile.

"Hello, Dean."

"Impala made it back okay?" the hunter asked at once, since he didn't quite trust Sam's effusive reassurances.

"Of course."

"And Grace?"

Castiel smiled. "She's alright too."

Dean's voice grew more subdued. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"What do you remember?"

The hunter huffed. "I remember dying in that forest after we left Hell. Imagine my surprise when I wake up. And wake up here."

Castiel pressed his lips together, almost flinching at the memory. He took a breath, and told Dean everything—about Rufus and his cabin, about the risk of him turning into a demon, about the elixir that had brought him to the brink of death by slowing down his body functions so that the infection wouldn't spread, about the escape from the Orcs and the long days spent riding, about their arrival and the time it had taken for the Elves to pull him back from the edge.

"Might be why I feel so cold," Dean mumbled. He was buried under an impressive amount of blankets and furs, and still shivered from time to time. He eyed the knight, who was anxiously biting his lips. "That was pretty reckless of you, Cas. It might not have worked, and you would've brought a god damn demon right where you less wanted it."

"You were going to die," Castiel replied, touched and irritated at the same time that once again, the good of the people was the first preoccupation in Dean's mind, long before his own well-being. He finally gave in to the urge and wrapped his fingers around the hand lying closest to him as he went on: "I couldn't let that happen, not if there was a chance for me to stop it."

The hunter chuckled at his stubborn frown, at the determined pout on his lips, typical of a noble in his eyes. He didn't take his hand back.

"I was okay with it, you know," he said quietly after a while. "Back then. Dying didn't seem so bad, compared to the alternative."

Castiel's grip tightened around his hand. "Dean-"

"But," he went on, not looking up from the sheet he was picking at with his free hand. "I realize I might not have been in my right mind at the time." He made himself meet the knight's gaze. "I'm glad I'm not dead, Cas," he admitted. "So, you know, thanks. Kinda. 'Cause you're damn lucky it turned out for the best."

Castiel let a wry smile curve his lips, but didn't say anything. Dean yawned, still weak enough that he didn't have the time to bring his free hand to his mouth.

"You should sleep," the knight said. "You're tired."

"I'm always tired," the hunter grumbled. "I swear, I'll soon be tired of _being_ tired, I can feel it. And half the time sleep sucks, anyways."

He didn't expand or explain what he meant, but he couldn't quite hide his apprehension at the prospect of sinking into unconsciousness again. There was the worry that he wouldn't wake up, or that he'd end up trapped in nightmares.

Castiel understood. He had them too. Only now the hunter's would probably be far more similar to his than before.

"It's okay," he said, squeezing Dean's hand again. "You're safe. I'll watch over you."

Dean snorted. "Creep. But you know, Krissy was right. You should sleep too. You look exhausted, man."

"I'm okay," Castiel replied at once. He didn't say that he'd spent almost all his nights in Dean's room as of late, slumbering in the nearest armchair. It was the closest thing to repose he'd found, the only way he was reassured enough to let himself drift off for a while.

"Right." The hunter snatched his hand away, leaving the knight bereft, and painstakingly scooted to the side. "Lie down. Here."

"Pardon me?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I need sleep, you need sleep, but I know you won't leave this room because you're more stubborn than I am and even if I manage to chase you away you'll only wait until I'm asleep to tiptoe back in and- Look, we're in the castle. We're home. Charlie ganked the bad guys, so it's not like we need to keep watch anymore. We're alive. But still. So, you know. The bed's big enough for two." He patted the mattress.

Castiel looked at the space now waiting for him, looked at the hunter who rose a pointed eyebrow at him. He guessed what the man was reluctant to admit even to himself: that he too would sleep better knowing where his companion was.

So the knight bent down to take off his boots. He was more hesitant when it came to taking off his ceremonial garments, though.

"Oh, come on," Dean grunted as he ensconced himself between his pillows. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

He sounded half-asleep already, and yet when Castiel glanced at him he grinned and winked, making the knight turn away to hide how flustered he suddenly felt. He heard another chuckle as he undid his belt, took off his doublet and shirt, and unlaced his breeches until he was left in nothing but his undershirt. He blew out the candles burning on the table and beside the bed, and hastily slid under the covers, careful to remain at a respectful distance. But Dean rolled towards him at once.

"You're warm," he simply said.

"You're cold," Castiel retorted, but didn't push him away. The hunter's skin was cool to the touch, like he'd just spent an entire winter day outside.

Dean only grunted in answer, slinging an arm around Castiel's torso and tucking him close like a hot water bottle. He let himself relax, finally letting go of the preoccupied anxiety he'd felt since he'd woken up for the second time and found the knight missing.

"It's okay," Castiel murmured, perceiving his state of mind. "We're okay. We're safe. The kingdom is safe."

Several seconds passed in silence and darkness.

"We did it, didn't we?" Dean whispered, hushed and awed and incredulous. "We saved the kingdom."

"Technically the Queen did," Castiel pointed out.

Dean chuckled. "Yes, she did. Of course she did."

On these last words, they fell asleep.

 

*

 

The Queen might've been the one who had pierced the Leviathan's heart with her newly minted blade, but she knew full well that she wouldn't have acquired such a powerful weapon without the help of many, wouldn't have had the opening she'd exploited without her soldiers and knights and allies. And she wasn't one to forget giving credit where it was due.

It was nearly two weeks before the celebrations started in earnest. Numerous scouts were sent all over the country to spread the news of the Queen's victory and check that all the spawns of the serpent had succumbed with it. As it was, there were no traces of them left. The streams drained themselves of their poison within days and their waters were soon fit to drink again, although caution was advised, especially with ponds and lakes. The numerous camp refugees were offered the choice to stay for the festivities or leave with an escort that'd protect them on the way back to their village or town and help with all the necessary repairs. More than half of them opted for the latter, their wish to celebrate overpowered by their longing for home. Besides, they felt obliged towards the Queen and kingdom and wanted to show their gratefulness by planting what crops they could in preparation for the winter, despite the lateness of the year.

Time was needed for things to find their order, for people to rest and recover, for the land surrounding the castle to be restored. The camp tents and huts would have to be taken down, the wall torn apart, the forests surrounding the castle replanted. But before that came the celebrations.

When they finally began, they were launched to last for a whole week and went through several high points. There was a banquet in honor of the Elves and Warriors, where treaties were renewed and strengthened. There was a long evening out on the plains where, under the light of countless lanterns and fireflies, the minstrels sang their first epics about the numerous happenings of the past year. There was a splendid ceremony that the Queen opened with a long speech addressed to her people, which had been relayed throughout the kingdom by carrier pigeons and would be repeated by every single lord and lady to the inhabitants of their domains. It was also the occasion for her to bestow gifts upon everyone whose contribution had been essential and salutary. She called before her the Elves and Warriors for their support and help, Sam Winchester for his relentless efforts in research, translations and spells, Kevin Tran, Samandriel and Kristine Chambers for their courage in the necropolis, Dame Rachel, Garth Fitzgerald and Jody Mills for leading her troops without fault, Pamela Barnes and Missouri Moseley for guaranteeing the survival and recovery of so many, Ash for his flawless forging, Frank Devereaux for keeping the kitchens under control through everything, even Gabriel for keeping the people's morale by his well-aimed but harmless pranks and his unexpected but enlightening words of wisdom…

Sir Castiel and Dean Winchester were called last, at the culminating point of the ceremony. They were both wearing the full uniform of their respective order, with the characteristic blue cloak of the knights and the green coat of the hunters, made of the best materials that the tailors and seamstresses could find under the circumstances. Beside these first presents, the Queen replaced the weapons that they'd lost and broken on their quest. Dean obtained a new short sword and a bow, which had been made with the help of the Elves; Castiel officially received his new sword, which had been consecrated the day before in the chapel, in presence of the sovereign and the knights. The Queen couldn't return his family knife to him, so instead she gave him one of her best falcons, an implicit invitation for him to join her on her leisure hunts in the future. Castiel accepted the bird with a small smile that only widened when he noticed Dean's grin.

Samandriel and Krissy rushed over to carry those gifts away and the room quietened as the Queen prepared to speak again. What she had just given Dean and Castiel was nothing compared to what they had done for the kingdom, she said. The sacrifices that they'd made by going through Purgatory and Hell couldn't be measured. By their unparalleled services to the crown they'd earned a special reward. At those words a murmur of agreement ran through the wide hall and echoed off its arches.

The Queen asked them what she hadn't asked anyone else: she told them to name the reward they wanted, whatever it might be, trusting that they wouldn't demand anything that'd cause any harm to her, the kingdom or its people. They only needed speak and it would be granted to them.

In the suspended silence that followed, Dean Winchester and Sir Castiel exchanged a glance. They actually had no idea what to ask for. Knowing that the kingdom and its people were safe was enough, it was what they'd been aiming for, it was all they needed.

After nearly half a minute Dean straightened and made a quip about keeping up the good work in improving the relations between Moondoor and the Elves, as well as the Warriors. His words dissolved the awkwardness that had fallen over the room. The guests in question respectfully bowed their head in thanks. From where they were sitting they couldn't see Dean's face, the sparkle in his eyes that reflected itself in the Queen's brown irises, for she knew perfectly at what her Head Huntsman was hinting. Both of them had noticed how Dean's brother Sam and Jessica of the Moors had been circling around each other, how close they'd grown after over a year spent working together against the Leviathans.

The brashness faded from his voice when he went on and admitted that what he wished for the most was a house. A home. _His_ home. Up until now he'd been living in the hunters' quarters, and he liked it there, but it wasn't the same. Large as it was, the room had belonged to another Head Huntsman before him and would belong to whomever succeeded him when he would retire. He wanted a place that he could call his own for as long as he had left to live.

He didn't mention these last minutes in the forest, when he'd thought that his life was over and realized he'd never had that, would never have that. He didn't say anything about unexpectedly waking up and deciding he wouldn't wait anymore. Still, people heard an echo of it in the faint tremble of his voice and sobered.

Castiel subtly shifted on his feet to brush his shoulder against the hunter's and spoke up in turn, drawing the attention away from Dean so that he'd have time to compose himself in peace. He followed his example, though, for reasons much similar to his. He asked for a garden—large enough for him to plant flowers as well as vegetables, to raise some bees, to grow several trees for shade, but not so large as to make him need more than one or two aides to maintain it, as he wanted to do most of the work himself in between his missions as a knight.

"That's it?" the Queen asked after a long, somewhat baffled silence. "That's all you want, a house and a garden?" She paused meaningfully, but neither men contradicted her. "Come on, guys," she said, momentarily dropping the formalities. "Give me something here. You saved the kingdom, you know. It needs a big gesture!"

Castiel remained impassible, chin proudly raised. Dean glanced at him and shrugged in feint helplessness. Charlie stared at them for several more seconds. She straightened in her seat, smoothing out her features as she took hold of herself.

"You know what? Fine," she said archly. "The Queen heard your wishes, and will do her best to fulfill them. Just know that you asked for it."

It sounded ominous, but a second later she let a sweet smile bloom on her face and announced the start of the evening's festivities.

 

*

 

The feast was incredible. Due to the situation the food wasn't plenty, but what the castle lacked to fill the plates it made up with joy and tales and songs and dances. Dean and Castiel found themselves the center of attention as the guests asked to hear about their quest once more and they humored them for the sake of the occasion. The hunter did most of the talking, with the knight butting in with short, dry remarks that made everyone laugh, much to his surprise.

Once their retelling was over the knight was whisked away by Samandriel and Dame Rachel, for his peers were clamoring for their Captain's attention. The circle of listeners dissolved and Dean remained sitting alone in a large armchair near one of the huge fireplaces lining the side of the hall. He felt exhausted, like talking about it had made him relive their whole journey all at once.

He didn't stay there long. Before anyone thought to join him he stood up and, in need of air, went to the balcony. There he sat on the stone railing to rest his aching feet. The soles were still tender, the wounds there barely closed, still a long way from being healed. He breathed slowly, in and out, in and out.

He and Castiel had glossed over most of the details of what had happened in Purgatory and in Hell. They didn't want to talk about it and, besides, it wasn't was the evening was about. It was about relief, joy, hope and rebirth, not about the scars on his body and mind, about the dark tint still lingering at the edge of his vision, the sulfury stench marring the perfumes of all flowers and the taste of all food, the echoes of cries that he heard underneath every happy shout or roar of laughter, the sudden stabs of pain whenever he moved too fast or someone accidentally bumped into him, like Alastair was piercing him with his blade all over again.

He closed his eyes, took another deep breath in, slowly let it out. The night around him was peaceful, a mild summer night filled with the soft songs of grills and nocturnal birds, the faint rustle of the wind in the branches, the merry gurgle of the small spring freshening the Queen's gardens underneath. Above him the sky was clear, glowing with countless stars and the pale stretch of the Milky Way. It was quiet. It was safe.

Behind him the heavy curtains separating the balcony from the inside rustled and when he turned he saw Castiel walking towards him. The knight didn't ask if Dean was okay. He already knew. He felt the same. He was tired, tense, a bit strung-out by the constant noise and movement in the dining hall. He still couldn't shake off the shadows clinging to his every step, clogging his every breath. His arm was paining him, as it often did after a long day. Without a word he came to stand between Dean's parted knees. Seconds, minutes passed by as they looked into each other's eyes, silent but understanding the other's every thought, his pain and regret.

After a while Dean raised an arm to wrap it around Castiel's shoulders, bringing the knight closer so he could rest his forehead against his chest, letting out a deep sigh. Castiel welcomed the embrace, leaned into it and returned it with his eyes closed, burying his face in the hunter's short hair. It felt like the first human contact after the lonely eternity of Purgatory, like the first tender touch after the years of torment at Alastair's hands. They stayed that way for a long time, clutching at each other, the crippled survivors of their own little, quiet cataclysm.

They only parted, quite abruptly, when the curtains were pushed aside by Sam, who was looking for his brother. His brow tightened in worry and confusion when he found him with Castiel, but not surprise. It wasn't like Dean to escape a feast, to avoid drinks, food, dance and company. But at the same time Dean had been different since he'd come back, more subdued, more grave.

And he was almost never alone. Whatever he did, wherever he went, Castiel was with him, or he was with Castiel.

When Dean ate in the kitchens—already back on solid food despite the healers' misgivings—, praising one of the cooks, Elizabeth, for her skills and her pies and congratulating her on her pregnancy, Castiel was sitting beside him, taking a bite from the hunter's slice without bringing any wrath upon himself. When Castiel walked through the Queen's gardens and sat on a bench there, watching the ears of wheat and rye as they ripened and bent, Dean sat beside him and listened to the knight tell him about what the gardens used to look like, what they'd hopefully look like again soon. When Dean took Impala out on the castle grounds for some exercise, making her walk, trot, canter and gallop around while he held the other end of the rope bound around her mouth, as he was in no state yet to be riding her, Castiel followed the movements on Grace's back, who seemed to greatly enjoy these sessions. When Castiel spent hours poring over maps and requests addressed to the Queen, pleas for help to rebuild farms and houses that had collapsed over the past year and fight against monsters or bandits, when he wondered how many men to send where and when, Dean bent his head over the same table, talked about which hunters he knew were available or could be found in this or that region, and turned the defense of the people into a joint effort which soon bore fruit. When Dean came down to the training grounds to stretch and surveil the mock-fights between hunters, comment on their hand-to-hand technique and give them advice to better their abilities with a bow, Castiel walked over, trusting Rachel to keep monitoring the knights' training while he was distracted.

There were rumors, too, maids and servants whispering that both of them had been glimpsed coming out of the other's chambers in the morning, more than once.

Something was happening, or had happened. No one knew what, exactly, but everyone had noticed, although no one had commented on it, at least not in Dean or Castiel's presence. They wouldn't dare, not when they saw how both men acted, turning or leaning towards the other when they were close, absently looking for each other when they were in a crowd, when they entered a room, and only relaxing once they knew exactly where the other was. It wasn't quite conscious, and everyone understood that it was nothing but the most visible result of what they'd experienced during their quest, of what they refused to talk about.

This new state of things was especially hard to bear for Sam, who wasn't used to sharing his brother with someone else, someone who didn't belong to their small family. He'd never struggled to find the words to speak to Dean like he did now, he'd never been in a situation where he wasn't the one to whom Dean turned when he needed… Something. Sam didn't even know what. He didn't know enough about Purgatory or Hell or whatever it was that had fractured the youthful, bright, reckless confidence in his older brother's eyes to provide it.

Dean wasn't talking. Not to him. It was unsettling. It was upsetting.

But he talked to Castiel.

And, somehow, it was enough. Dean was getting better, smiling more every day, wider, brighter, just like Castiel stood straighter and found his voice again, his belief in himself, in his abilities to lead his peers. So Sam didn't call Dean out on his changed behavior, didn't ask questions or demand explanations, trusting that they'd come in time, once Dean was ready. For now all he could do was let him recover at his own pace, in the company of someone who had come to care for him and most of all could understand.

He couldn't help but linger, though, ask if Dean was okay, just to make sure.

"Yeah, yeah," the hunter replied with forced lightness. "Just, you know. Tired. I must've had too much wine or something."

Except that Dean hadn't touched his glass after the short sip expected after the Queen had raised a toast. Sam had noticed. Just as he'd noticed the look taking over Dean's face when he'd sat alone in that armchair, covering his eyes in a veil of memories about which he didn't talk, wouldn't talk.

Castiel observed the exchange, watchful and guarded, still standing close enough to Dean for their shoulders to touch. The hunter was subtly leaning into it, silently looking for support.

It was hard, but Sam let it go. He didn't linger either, telling them he'd present their excuses to the Queen and the other guests before he left the balcony. Once the curtain had fallen back behind his tall frame, Castiel turned his head towards Dean. He didn't speak but the hunter understood the implicit question.

"I'm okay," he said softly. "I swear." A second passed, two. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the knight's, adding in a sigh: "We'll be okay."

"Yes," Castiel replied, closing his eyes. "We will."

They could still hear voices, exclamations and laughter filtering from the large hall behind them, bubbles of joy that stumbled through the curtains and spread sparkling through the night, until they faded into its growing silence. Overhead the stars turned, distant and immutable, indifferent to all things but to the slow rise of the moon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you have questions or wanna come say hi :)


	8. (Epilogue) Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter (and an epilogue, of sorts). Thank you to anyone who took the time to read this and/or leave kudos. I hope you enjoy :)

A little over a year later, the castle of Moondoor was the stage of more celebrations, albeit of a different nature. As grapes, apples and pears were harvested, a large company of Elves made the long trip from the forest of Nim Nim with Jessica of the Moors at their head. They came to witness her union with Sam Winchester and escort the couple back to the elven realm afterwards.

A marriage between a Human and an Elf was the stuff of legends, sung in many poems but remote from reality, for no one remembered a time when it had really happened. It left many wondering, marveling. The groom was among them.

"I can't believe this is really happening," Sam said, adjusting the collar of his ceremonial robes for the hundredth time and smoothing back his hair. He ruined the effect—again—by abruptly whirling around to pace up and down his room.

He hadn't believed this was happening a year earlier either, when the Elves had departed at the very end of summer and Jessica had made her intent clear. After receiving the Queen's last gifts and bidding her goodbye, she'd come to stand before Sam. The young man had often been at her side during her stay in Moondoor, poring over manuscripts and translations. He had proven himself a bright and curious mind, always eager to learn more about her people and to help her better understand his. By the time the Leviathans had been defeated and the time had come for her people to leave, she had known what she wanted with peaceful clarity.

So instead of going through the customary bows and well-wishes she had smiled and raised a hand to his cheek. Everyone around them had paused as it happened, the Elves knowing what the symbolic gesture meant, the Humans instinctively perceiving its significance, as they had noticed how little physical contact the Elves initiated with others, even among themselves. But even if they hadn't, they would have realized something major was going on when Sam Winchester had turned a deeper red than anyone had ever seen, even his older brother who had been witness to the most mortifying incidents of his life. He'd stuttered and his face had split into a wide, flustered smile. He'd refrained from flailing and carefully, tenderly returned the gesture, cupping the blond Elf's face with his large hand.

Jessica had beamed, happy and relieved. The whole hall had relaxed, letting out sighs and chuckles and breaking into applause to congratulate the newly engaged couple.

Four seasons later, Sam hadn't gotten rid of his disbelief.

"I mean, she knows so much," he stammered. "She's lived so much, she-"

"Thank you for reminding me that my little brother's been snatched by an old maid," Dean muttered, frowning as he tugged on Sam's cloak so its folds would fall properly—which they would've done, if the giant child had stopped flailing for more than one second at a time. "We're lucky she doesn't look it."

He glanced up when he was met with silence instead of heated protestations. His brow furrowed when he realized that Sam had barely heard him, his eyes reflecting the insecurity rising in his mind as he compared himself to the magnificence and wisdom of his beloved and found himself wanting.

"Come on, Sammy," he said, patting his brother on the shoulder. "You're a catch. You're the exact kind of crazy bookish clever that Elves seem to find so appealing, while at the same time being inventive. A young brain and mind—they sure need those kinds of things."

"Jessica is not old," Sam countered, although it was still weak.

"Yeah, I guess we're lucky their longevity isn't all what it's cracked up to be in the legends. I'd set my foot down if she were immortal, you know, because then she'd only be marrying you to reap the benefits once you're dead. After all, it's not everyday you get the opportunity to marry into nobility."

"You're the noble, not me," Sam said, but he'd started to smile. "I'm still nothing but a lowly commoner."

Indeed, while Sam had remained Sam Winchester, Dean now carried the title of baron of Winchester, courtesy of the Queen. As payback for his modest request, she'd granted it in the most extravagant way imaginable. The house she'd gifted him with was actually a small fort, situated on a hill about six miles from the castle, surveilling the Western pass leading to Mount Mordorg. She'd been meaning to man the place again to watch out for threats, she'd innocently said. Of course, the fort had come with its surrounding lands, no matter how small, and therefore with a title, much to Dean's dismay. He'd had to deal with it, though, as any decision of the Queen was final.

"We both know I won't have kids," he pointed out. "And I'll need an heir, Sammy."

Upon hearing that Sam threw him a touched glance, his whole face softening. Dean, who was keen to avoid any sentimental drivel, avoided his gaze, tugged one last time on his cloak and patted him on the shoulder.

"Okay!" he cheerfully exclaimed. "You're good to go. It wouldn't do to be late to your own wedding, so chop chop."

Seeing the nerves come back from a mile away, Dean clasped his brother by the shoulders and marched him out of the room before they could take hold.

 

*

 

The ceremony was beautiful, if long. It had been made to include human as well as elven rituals, so that the union would be considered valid in both realms. Sam followed it all to the letter, without a single second of hesitation, even when it came to the part where he had to pronounce several long traditional phrases in Elvish. As he did so Jessica watched him, surrounded by a glow which none of the minstrels succeeded in describing properly in the numerous songs written about their love over the years.

The Queen was the last one to speak, blessing the union. Another blessing would be bestowed upon them by the Elven King once the couple returned to the forest of Nim Nim. But for now it was enough for their marriage to be consecrated and a great cry of joy rose to the skies, followed by applause. Dean, who as one of the witnesses was standing at his brother's side, clapped and whooped the loudest, lips stretched into a wide grin. His heart was glad to see his little brother so happy, although it ached at the same time.

Once the festivities were over Sam would leave with Jessica for her realm, where he would stay as her husband and as the ambassador of Moondoor. Dean already knew that he'd miss him. He always did when he was on the road for a hunt and Sam at the castle. Only this time it would be worse, because it would be for much longer, for good in a way, and because Sam had been a crutch for him over the past year, especially after Castiel had left.

That departure had happened by mutual agreement. After a whole summer and half an autumn, the hunter and the knight had had to admit to themselves that things couldn't go on like they had since their return. They'd spent most their time together then, instinctively seeking the comfort that it brought them and that they couldn't find elsewhere. But that situation had also had increasing downsides. As soon as they were parted they were filled with irrational tension, discomfort, even dread, which could only be appeased if they knew exactly where the other was and what he was doing at any second of any day. Under such circumstances they hadn't been able to fulfill their duties as Head Huntsman and Captain of the Knights. The couple of hunts on which Castiel had accompanied Dean as a trial run had been a disaster.

Reduced to staying cooped up at the castle, they'd soon found themselves in a constant state of agitation and irritation which had been as unpleasant for them as it had been for their friends and comrades.

"I'd say, you know me," Dean had said when he'd finally addressed the matter with the knight, at Sam's urging. "A situation like that, I just need to get some air, maybe a drink, get away for a bit to come back with a clear head. Only no, you don't, you don't know me, not like that. You don't know how I cope with things, just like I don't know what you need when you're not okay, if you need space or-" He'd shrugged. "And even if I did, or you did, it's not like we can get it. Not the way things are." He'd shaken his head. "We can't live like this, man."

Castiel had agreed.

He'd been thinking the same thing. He had even started to take measures, in that he'd exchanged several letters with James, arranging for a visit. When Dean had sat him down for a talk, he'd been trying for days to find a way to broach the subject with him.

That solution had been more radical than what Dean had been imagining, but he'd been willing to give it a try. So Castiel had left to spend the winter at his brother's estate.

It had been hard. The first month had been the worst. But they hadn't given in to the urge to go search for the other, hadn't given up.

Little by little, it had gotten better. Dean had started helping with the repairs around the castle and the surrounding plains, which still weren't finished. He'd gone on several hunts, first as a distraction and then because it was his job, because he'd remembered why he was doing it, why he liked it in the first place. He never went alone, though, not like he'd sometimes done in his younger, more reckless years. Along with Krissy, Sam was often with him, or Jo, or Victor, or even Garth.

For Castiel it had taken a little bit longer. But when he'd left his brother in the spring he hadn't ridden back to the royal castle. Instead he'd gone on the road to check on the population and see how they'd fared over the harsh winter, sending regular reports to the Queen and to Rachel, who had remained at the castle from which she coordinated the knights' missions. As spring had morphed into summer, the Captain's observations had led to planning and given rise to a series of interventions in the regions and villages that had been affected the most, bringing grain, construction material and workforce in convoys of which the knights guaranteed the security.

Their reinforced presence within the kingdom had only been possible thanks to the momentary truce Moondoor had had with the Orcs. Their western foes were indeed aware of the kingdom's decisive role against the Leviathans and had shown their grudging gratefulness by stepping back from the territories they'd been trying to take. They still refused to engage in any kind of negotiations, of course, but for the first time in years that part of the country was quiet. To encourage the peace, Castiel had brought back the horse that had carried him and Dean over the plains of Wanck-dor, as mounts were nearly as precious to Orcs as their own lives. They'd taken it with an inclination of the head and disappeared.

The knight had used the opportunity offered by that trip to go find Rufus again. But he hadn't found him. All he'd come upon were the charred remains of a wooden hut in a small clearing, nothing but blackened logs and beams, shards of clay and rusted utensils. They'd all been covered in lichen and moss and mushrooms, like they'd been lying that way for years, for decades. When Castiel had described the old man to the inhabitants of the nearest villages, no one had had any recollection of ever seeing him, or even hearing of him. He'd had to leave shortly after, called by his duty, leaving the mystery unsolved.

When he'd mentioned the matter to Dean in the next letter he'd sent him, the hunter hadn't shown any sign of puzzlement. Over the years he'd often come across unexplainable phenomenons and all he'd replied was that most of the time it was better to let them rest undisturbed.

They had indeed exchanged letters. More than once, especially at the beginning, their correspondence had been the only thing that had made their separation bearable, even though it had been entirely unplanned. The first missive had been a short message from Castiel to Dean, which he'd written upon his arrival at his family's estate. In it he'd simply told the hunter that he'd arrived without complications and was well, if only to bring the man some peace of mind. But he hadn't been able to refrain from asking for a reply, just so he'd know that Dean was doing okay too.

After that, they hadn't stopped.

Until then Dean had never been much of a writer. He'd known how to read and write, as his father had insisted he learn, but had only made a limited, practical use of these abilities. His handwriting was clumsy, his sentences short and to the point, a world away from Castiel's prose, where words slid and looped on the page with a skill honed by years of practice. But what Dean lacked in eloquence, he made up for with his openness.

The letters had quickly stopped being nothing but reassurances that allowed them to cope. A short remark had led to an anecdote that one of them had shared with the other, which had prompted another one, and so on. The paragraphs had lengthened, and before long could cover anything from the most inane everyday story to the deepest, darkest reflexion.

Castiel had been the first one to state that he missed Dean; Dean had been the first one to admit that he barely slept, although it wasn't for lack of trying. They'd also delved deeper into the after-effects of what they'd gone through during their quest—how Castiel still couldn't ride alone through quiet woods without feeling claustrophobic, how Dean winced at the rattle of a door, the sweet sound of a hum, the dramatic yowls of playing children. The knight had searched for words to encompass the nauseating helplessness that had come when he'd felt himself cut off from his angel, when his faith had wavered and nearly collapsed; Dean had tried to describe what Alastair had made him see, for the torture he'd made him suffer hadn't only been physical. It wasn't something that he could talk about with Sam, since most of it had been _about_ Sam, and all the worse for it. They'd shared things they'd never told anyone else, would never tell anyone else, and probably wouldn't even have told each other had they been talking instead of writing.

But they'd shared other things too, memories, opinions, fears and hopes, small irritations and joys. By the end of the winter Dean knew everything about Claire and how she plied poor Samandriel with questions, for she was fast approaching the age of most callings and hoped with all her being that she'd be among those chosen by an angel. Castiel for his part had learned far more than he'd ever wanted to know about the hunters surrounding Dean, especially about Jo and Victor's unusual courtship, made of rivalry and fierce denial.

Mostly they'd learned about each other. They'd gotten to know each other in a way that the time they'd spent on their quest and immediately afterwards hadn't allowed. From the inevitable and somewhat unhealthy link that it had forged between them, they'd created another bond, more real, more solid, more profound.

Thanks to these letters, the months spent apart hadn't estranged them, but had brought them closer, while restoring their independence, their sense of self. They didn't need each other anymore. But they wanted each other—as comrade-in-arms, as friends and as something beyond that.

For Dean it had also brought reassurance and relief as the leaves had started to turn yellow, red and brown, hinting at the imminence of Sam's wedding. He now had concrete proof that durable physical distance didn't necessarily go hand in hand with the loss of a meaningful, precious relationship. He'd made sure to pack a fair amount of writing supplies in the bags and boxes that his little brother would be taking with him and was already planning to go see him the following summer.

It also helped that, once again, he wouldn't be entirely alone, exchanging one companion for another.

Castiel had finally come back to the castle of Moondoor after the harvest of wine grapes. His intention was to stay there over the winter, at the exception of short missions. He'd reached the royal castle nearly two weeks before Sam's wedding, after having ridden through the night. But instead of stopping there he'd turned Grace westwards, along the narrow road leading to Dean's home, knowing he'd be welcome there.

He still remembered that morning keenly. The sun had crested over the horizon barely fifteen minutes after he'd left the castle behind, lighting his way with a beam of soft, pinkish light. The night had been cold; the leaves and blades of grass had all been laced with frost, glinting like crystal. A rabbit had shaken its ears before disappearing into a bush, a late flock of geese had flown overhead and he'd gently encouraged Grace up the slope leading to the fort crowning the hill.

A few guards had greeted him as he'd reached the gates. There he'd also exchanged a smile and a few words with Elizabeth, who had been coming back from the garden with a basket full of fruit. After the birth of her child, a healthy blue-eyed boy whom she'd named Benjamin, she'd decided to leave the royal kitchens and Dean had suggested that she take over the smaller ones here. She'd agreed, and was obviously pleased with her choice.

Castiel had entered the courtyard. He'd found the Head Huntsman there, getting Impala ready. Dean had turned around when he'd heard Grace's hooves resonate on the stones, had seen the knight. His whole face had lit up.

In that second they'd know. They'd both known.

With an irrepressible smile of his own Castiel had slid from his saddle, his eyes never leaving Dean. The hunter had looked so much better than the last time he'd seen him, nearly a year earlier. He'd looked healthy. He'd regained the weight and muscle that he'd lost, the energy for which he was known. Castiel had brought a hand to his face, feeling the rasp of stubble under his palm but also the fullness of his cheek.

"You look good," he'd whispered, voice full of wonder.

Dean hadn't stopped smiling. "I could say the same to you."

For Castiel too had recovered. Even though he'd looked a bit tired after a whole night's ride, the winter spent in the care of his brother and the open air of the road over the spring and summer had done him good. He filled his doublets and shirts again. Just then he'd been a bit sweaty, but his eyes had been bright, his cheeks flushed, his back straight. The hand that had caressed Dean's jaw hadn't been trembling, even though it had been the right one. He'd chuckled and shaken his head.

"I probably look terrible," he'd said, aware that his hair was ruffled, his clothes wrinkled, his boots and the bottom of his cloak spattered with mud.

Dean's retort had been a kiss—unexpected, given without thought, prompted by sheer affection and by how close Castiel had been standing. It had barely taken a second for the knight to overcome his surprise and return it, letting his eyes slide shut as he'd slung an arm around Dean's shoulders, bringing him closer. He'd reveled in it, in the feeling of joy, of home that he'd only ever glimpsed whenever he'd read a letter from Dean; in that second he'd tasted and savored it fully.

The hunter hadn't gone to the royal castle that day, sending a carrier pigeon giving Jo full authority on hunting matters for the day. He'd made Castiel get a couple hours of sleep, during which he'd prepared a meal for him with Elizabeth's help, complete with a pie baked with the first apples of the year. After they'd eaten, he'd shown the knight around the fort, its rooms and windings stairs, its dining hall beside its kitchen, its library and study, its dovecote near the small stables, where Castiel had found not only Grace, who had been taken care of, but also the falcon that the Queen had given him. They'd finished the tour with the gardens. Only a small part of them had been planted and when he'd seen Castiel's confusion Dean had admitted that he had been waiting for the knight to come back and do what he wanted with them, since they had been declared his by the Queen.

This time, Castiel had been the one to kiss Dean.

Less than two weeks had gone by since then, but all aspects of their reunion had run smoothly. Most of all they hadn't fallen back into their bad habits. Hopefully, it'd stay that way. Dean had been able to go about his business as usual. Since he was Sam's only surviving relative, it had consisted in preparing the wedding and packing his brother's things more than hunting. As for Castiel, he had joined efforts with Rachel and the Queen to deal with the situation that had developed with the Warriors of Yesteryear.

Their leader had been most displeased with Dorothy's disobedience, especially because of the callous way she'd explained it in front of the whole tribe upon her return. He would've liked nothing more than to punish her for her disrespect, but couldn't do so without risks. Dorothy was popular among her people, hence the amount of Warriors who had followed her to fight against the Leviathans. Plus, her actions had played a significant part in the defeat of evil, a fact of which everyone was aware. And last but not least, any excessive severity towards her would greatly displease their northern neighbor and ally, especially since Queen Charlie herself had become close friends with the bold woman. Several eminent voices among the Warriors were darkly muttering that this mess was nothing but machinations from Moondoor with the aim to sow discord and reap the benefits by stealing control over the Desert from them, thus providing the kingdom with a direct access to the sea. The most extremist opinion was to breach any treaty signed with the kingdom and return to the old warrior ways of pillage and thievery—a choice that would be detrimental to Moondoor and anger the Elves. Due to the fact that the alliance between the latter and the Humans was stronger than ever, as shown by Sam and Jessica's nuptials, the people of the forest of Nim Nim had now a say in Moondoor's foreign policy. And they'd never had much patience towards the Warriors.

In short, the situation had become a diplomatic mess. But Castiel still had hopes that they might find a pacific solution.

Maybe.

He took advantage of the fact that his twin had come to the royal castle for Sam Winchester's wedding to discuss the matter with him. James had always been good as a peace-bringing mediator, as shown by his ability to solve any question over which Castiel and their mother had ever butted head over the years. He had several useful suggestions, for which the knight was thankful.

Their conversation had shifted to fond recollections of the most ridiculous arguments of their childhood when Dean came to find him. Dinner had been over for hours and the reception was winding to a close now that the newlyweds had retired for their first night as husband and wife. The moon was sinking towards the horizon and soon the early birds would start singing to greet the first light of dawn.

When the hunter saw the knight, his heart did a little jump in his chest. Castiel cut a striking figure in his ceremonial clothes, but beyond that he was dear and familiar. He was home. Dean's lips curved into a helpless smile, which Castiel returned as soon as he noticed him.

"It's time to go, Cas," the hunter said with a glance at James. "It's getting late, and we still have half an hour's ride before us."

The knight nodded and excused himself to his brother. James waved his apologies away. "It's no problem, _Cas_ ," he said, appreciative of the nickname to which he converted himself at once. "I'll see you tomorrow."

They parted with a last hug. Dean and James shook hands.

On the ride back the hunter was silent, smiling softly but also melancholy. Sam wouldn't leave before a couple of days, so he'd still get to see him several times before his departure, and yet it felt like he was already gone. It was an unfamiliar feeling, happy and sad at the same time.

The fort reflected his quiet state when they reached it. Only a couple of guards were still awake, keeping watch according to the Queen's orders. At the light of a torch, Castiel went to check on his bees in the garden. On the way back he stopped at the edge of a circle of stones carved with protective sigils. At its center, the smallest sprout had shot from the earth, barely a week after he'd planted the stone he'd received from Balthazar. The night breeze shook the single leave that had unfolded at the tip of the short stem. It glowed in the dark like it was made of stardust. For some unfathomable reason, it made Castiel smile.

He went through the stables on the way back, where Dean had taken Grace and Impala and had just finished brushing them. As the knight approached, the hunter heaved up the saddles one after the other to put them away, straightening with a pained groan once he was finished.

He startled when Castiel put his hands on his shoulders, and let out a self-depreciating huff at his own fright when he realized that he wasn't under attack. The knight didn't comment. More than once he'd had the same excessive reaction when he hadn't heard his brother or niece come into a room. The fact that had amused Claire to no end, until she'd understood why her uncle was so jumpy. She'd stopped trying to surprise him after that.

Silently, he started massaging the hunter's back, aware of how often it troubled him, especially after a long day. Beside what Dean had hinted at in his letters, Castiel had noticed how long it took him in the morning to stretch, how he refused to take off his undershirt because he wasn't comfortable with anyone seeing his countless scars.

Castiel's right arm was the same. It often pained him in the most inopportune moments and he hated it when the people around him noticed.

"Thanks," Dean said afterwards. He followed the word with a kiss, slow and sweet, ending in a playful nip that made Castiel smile and hum.

"Let's go to bed," he said.

"You tired?" Dean mumbled agains his lips.

He was. The day had been long and emotionally draining. But his answer was: "Not quite."

He felt Dean grin, before the hunter stepped back and took his hand to lead him to his room.

He'd been right. They were okay.

 

_End_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you have questions or want to come say hi :)


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